Defeat. A poem.

My last vestige of hope
Beaten from me with the crowbar
Of fear and distaste in your eyes

Each blow taking my breath
Bloodying my mind and soul
Making me less of a man

Until there’s nothing left
But anger at the injustice of it all
The irony of lie and truth

If I’d lied there would be no hurt but my own
With the truth there is your pain and judgement which I bear
But my conscience will go on

I lost the war before it began
So raise your club and beat me
Again and again and again and again

Until the pulp and cartilage
That once was just a human being
Is formless and easier to scorn

Now I’m just a cliche told round campfires
Of monsters since brought low
Who found their just reward

Every story has two sides, you see
But history belongs to the ones
Who long conspire in victory

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