When, as you pass them by, sullen or afraid,
They spur you on in presence – laughing, mocking, disdained,
You rise upon the eagle’s wing – regal, strong, remained,
And on that brace it’s revealed, finally you’re stayed.
When time comes to pitch the ditch, holding at last for hope,
As all matters are against, probing, dispensed,
And the minute calls, it witnesses – scratch the itch, lower the scope,
Time’s they’ve come, now it stands, to blows now commenced.
When everyone around is baying for blood but merely footing the fringe,
As the calls mount – presenting as soul-extracted screams,
And the injustices clamour, rocking worlds, myriads despair the cringe,
Moments of composure stand – the possibility redeems.
When reality barely reconciles the insanity upon confounding belief,
Uncertain and anxious, abridged is the candle, flickers though still aflame,
Holds the person about through which is felt – relief,
For now it is yours, still there abouts, the victory to claim.
When thought is resigned to human frailty easy it is to give up,
As memory of failure overrides the overcoming spirit within,
And the prices of challenge surmount ever increasingly to corrupt,
Better to find the innovation of heaven-founded Spirit’s din.
When all is disposed, abrogated and perished – but still there is life,
As the muzzle is removed and teeth are borne and moments fall to the death,
And the probabilities are restrained better to manifest strife,
Beckons does the gate, it opens, toward the stoic bereft.
When finally it can be counted – battles won to cover those lost,
And whilst loss is a fountain with which tears are heaped,
And the addition of which are extracted to establish what is the cost,
Then rest is taken and knowledge is known – sown from what is later reaped.
© 2010 S. J. Wickham.
Inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem, If.Graphic Credit: Photograph by