TO LOSE A BATTLE
A POEM IN MODERN ENGLISH METER
BY MATTHEW SOAMES
To lose a battle, and win a war,
Does this not constitute life?
Look down the halls of Gold and Blue has He,
Spectres of the Past and visions of the ever-approaching He does see.
Confronts Him His Study-Master does,
"What hath come about You, my son?
Around You there is a new aura, a new feel.
What has happened? Tell me please, my son."
A pause, empty, stagnant, filled the air.
"To tell thee of My own demons,
My own trials, My own soul
Should take thee some time to hear, and Me, some time to tell."
His Study-Master turned the head that was his own,
"My son," he said, "time does stand still.
If only for a moment, while those infernal machines go on, tick, tick,
The moment does take pause, and in that time, thine demons, trials, soul shall be not thine own burden, but mine, in time."
"Find us a parlor, then, and get thee a chair.
To give thee Mine own demons, trials, soul in but one day –
If this thee truly want, then have, ye shall,
My Study-Master; now let us be off!"
And off they went,
His Study-Master and He,
To the privacy of a room most dark,
For demons, trials, and soul to pass.
In a chair most ornate
His Study Master sat.
"My son," he said again,
"Thine heart make mine, as there is all this time: demons, trials, soul in but one day!"