The Greater Fight

We grew to know, the value of the soul -
till tides flowed and hearts grew cold,
to a priceless trade for a hopeless place,
in the relegation stakes of a rodent race.

As for excalibur, each takes his turn,
Their souls burn, for fame and title yearn …
as thrones ascend and vanities descend
to flow then ebb, as tides recede again

‘Ere they triumph, they blow their trump,
then sadly slump. Dough turns to crumb
in the empty vanity of heart-filled vict’ry,
as hearts freeze and fires flicker, cease.

The sacred blade, to the cold stone clave,
as every knave marks the brevity of day
then souls dethroned drift like ghosts,
then walk alone in empty, haunted groves.

Till at last, recount, the value of the fount
that God decants from the sacred mount –
to all who strain, for the utmost gain
nor would stray, from His purposed way.

There to find, what mystic depths resound,
to thus confound, darkened states of mind …
then light the way, as all who heed, regain:
by last refrain, the saviour’s bloodied claim.

(c) Peter Eleazar @ www.4u2live.net