The Appeal

Come unto me, Muse, gentle lady called Love,

And send inspiration from your place above.

Assist me in finding the words that are just

To demonstrate Conquest is nothing but lust.


            The Argument

The question is weather the battle is meant

As the grand culmination of all that’s been spent,

Or if Conquest is just the beginning of rule,

Where the conquered side finds that it now plays the fool.

Can Conquest be merely an end in itself,

Or is it a subtle replacement for pelf?

So let us examine the foes in the fray,

Where cunning, not courage, may carry the day.


            Part the First: The Foes


Which side shall be blamed as the instigator?

As in other things, it takes two to make War.

Perhaps it is beauty that causes aggression;

Quite often a dare, or a modest confession.

Oh, no! not intended to serve as a challenge,

Which naught but a cry of “en garde” shall avenge;

But rather it’s meant, like a measuring glance,

To show that there’s always some degree of chance.

A pleasing terrain, or an over-full vault,

May instigate plans for a full-scale assault.

Aye, greed and desire, or the urge to control

Another one’s life, and another one’s soul;

Or just idle fancies, played out to extremes,

Can cause blood to flow and burst innocent dreams.


The foes are like oceans that join at their tips:

They toss their heads proudly, they sway at the hips,

Tempestuous, stormy, they wildly careen;

At other time proudly and gently serene.

Their waters might mingle, their storms may be shared,

As the hoofbeats of stallions that long have been paired;

But, divided by continents vast as themselves,

Unknowingly deep, despite how far one delves,

They keep the uniqueness inherent in all

Of the mind’s of Mankind since the time of The Fall.


But must that then mean that these warriors are strange,

Somehow transcending the normal man’s range?

Contrary to this, it may truly be said

They differ but little from those they’ve misled

And been misled by since the dawning of guile

Led Eve to dissemble, and Adam to smile.


Perhaps one is dark, and the other one fair;

One plods on the ground, the next soars through the air.

But countenance matters no whit to desire,

And the journey’s the same to the dam or the sire.

Would they contemplate battle or seek the campaign

If they foresaw the strife or imagined the pain?

Who searches for motive unless to give blame!

And when one is caught in the heat of the flame,

To think of their misery soon to transpire

Would dampen the spirit, and put out the fire.

Ah! mortal we live, and the same shall we die;

Perfection’s a thing even God would decry!


            Part the Second: The Battlefield


The Battlefield is no intentional place,

Marked with bright banners, or imbued with strange grace;

The setting may vary along with the time,

As Death is dispensed without reason or rhyme.

It may be a ghetto or a palace of gold,

The seats of a carriage or in a ship’s hold;

A house when the sun shines, a beach when it rains;

The mountains are chosen as oft’ as the plains;

But, where e’er the place, let it never be said

That the feelings weren’t high, or the blood wasn’t red.

We think of a battle on gossamer downs

While yet, everywhere, roughness always abounds.


So where is the point? is the question we ask.

Do we relish the contrast, or seek for a mask?

If it is the first, it may truly be said

That the struggle for life is set off by the dead,

And the dying of things far beyond Dylan’s light,

Confuses us more—mayhap darkness is night!

Aye, cloaking the actions that many deplore

(Like the thought of the savage, red-fanged carnivore

Brings delicate shudders to the lady or gent

As they witness the struggles, secure in their tent,

And neatly devour their portions of meat)

Yet few seek to end ‘til their lust is replete.


And if it’s the latter, what is it we hide?

Is it the fact that true feelings have died,

And so we seek places to prove that we feel

The same things we did when once we were real?

But now we are phantoms, and drift throughout life

Seeking emotions we found in that strife

That once was a pleasure, but now is a need

To prove to ourselves that we still can succeed.


And so we retreat to the fields we have known

Where the seeds of our Conquests have always been sown.

Ah! smooth as famed Flanders, and white as a ghost,

Pure as a virgin are the grounds that play host

To the presence of men, and the acts they’ve come for,

And blameless of them as the bed of a whore.


            Part the Third: The Battle is Waged


The foes is now sighted, the battle lines drawn;

The faces flush red as the full hue of dawn,

The sentinels ride to the flanks of the field

Seeking the points that in future might yield.

They look very carefully, up and then down,

They heave a deep sigh that becomes a small frown;

Has the site fully met the initial report,

And does the opponent deserve the effort?

To discover the features and lay of the land,

And review all the stratagems that have been planned

Is the work of an instant, admittedly fraught

With the perils as well as the speed of the thought.


And so at last comes the initial encounter:

As, when the horseman, first seeking to mount her,

Looks the brood-mare in the dead of the eye,

So the sage warrior bestows a fierce glare

That the intended victim cannot look elsewhere;

Or that, if one does (in the meaningful way),

The obliqueness of chance might not go astray.


Then, without the need for combatants to choose,

Either a short moment of silence ensues,

Or else the great trumpets emit such a blare

That trembles the ground and sunders the air—

While the eyes of the foes are locked in embraces

Of deadly intent, wherein linger traces

Of light-hearted joy in anticipation

Of self-bloodless sport, and base satiation.


Finally then, with the feelers withdrawn,

The main bodies position themselves to press on

And enter into the great conflict at last,

Forgetting the future is built on the past.

The boasting is finished, the challenging done:

The time to make contact has suddenly come.


At first all the fighting is quite tentative,

As though thoughts of mercy might somehow still live;

But trickles or tidal waves drown just as sure

When their strength has reached to its total measure.

The fencing was rapid, the contact increased,

And all of the passions are fully unleashed.

The meaningless cries of the warriors can’t drown

Out the flash of an eye or the twitch of a frown;

And all of the armor which shelters their skin

Cannot hide the meanings of movements within.

And thus the pretensions to modesty fall

Along with their garments, to uncover all

Of the folds of the flesh, which often reflect

The wrinkles that make-up and soft light protect.

But, when that protection has fallen away,

Like maggots exposed to the harsh glare of day

They squirm, for they loathe to feel vulnerable

While yet they themselves seek to strike to the full.


Now out come the Weapons they strove to conceal

Until the great moment, when all becomes real.

The Lance is extended, and ready to thrust

To the core of the victim, who watches nonplussed

By the swiftness and thoroughness of the attack,

So that, in the shock, he can safely fall back.

But, lo! gapes the Vise, with its jaws set to clamp

Onto the Lance as it seeks to encamp

Within the terrain that appears to be tender,

But harbors the time-proven means to defend her.

But yet it comes on, unaware of its plight;

Engorged with its pride, and with no thought of fright,

The Weapon is sheathed in the flesh of the foe,

The fluid of life then spurts out in a throe.

Oh, vanity! Vanity. All is now lost.

Why do they never consider the cost?

But, just as chastity’s lost in a whore,

Intelligence never has been part of war.


            The Retreat


Quickly, the Weapon is limply withdrawn

And they both crawl away in the oncoming dawn.

But who was crowned Victrix? And where is the wreath?

What, to their futures, has either bequeathed?

Blood spilt, without thought of posterity;

Actions fulfilled that brought no clarity;

The plowshares so carefully beaten to swords

Will never advance them a single step towards

Some sort of fulfillment, or even that peace

Which comes when the search for the right one can cease.

And so the sad spirals of Conquest endureth

On a course just as empty and certain as Death.

Make a Free Website with Yola.