The Sword and the Lance

In a time of frustration you said you wouldn't
Act for every nation; such was your pact.
For deeds done to you by one high above,
Who you said didn't know fiction from fact,
You'd set aside everything you once loved.

A pity that you wouldn't, you couldn't
See, what was given to you in a time
Of frustration; livid was your sad face
For the ruin of the face of your son.
What is given to us at the time's dawn
Is not meant to make us suffer hardships,
But to equip us, slake our nature, fawn
Upon our being, shake our very hips
In a dance of jubilation. The one
Who see's perfection in an advertised
Statement, a direction that may not be
For everyone, not their cup of hot tea,
Finds daily sorrows rather than the joys
That would have been his. No prosperity
In the dark woods of life, the show of boys
and girls, beauty and charm, elegance, grace,
Is given to the one who shames the face
Of time; who shames this gift in their own child.

The race may seem off balance, a wild
Affair that has no hope of giving you
Anything other than a chance to live.
But wouldn't you take that chance, even give
All you had in advance just for a true
Moment of living? The lance, to the hand,
Is but one weapon in demand; and it
Is a strong weapon suited for a stand
Upon horseback. Yet swift is the sword hit,
And quick is it's blade! Suited for a stand
Upon the long promenade against men
Of arms, or for traveling lightly clad;
Neither lance nor sword are at all that bad
Should the circumstance arise where needed
Are their skills. But you cannot see, will not
Accept, that your son has been made a lance.

                              The Sword and the Lance, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012