The Arena of the Unbowed Poet

Art, like the mystery in a cosmic sea,
One pluck of the petal is all one needs.
A spark in the distant star of faith,
That talent is free, and not quartered or made.
Amidst the jackals, heckles rise,
Wishing to tear down, to rise and ride
Upon the wings of Hercules reborn—
Though they know not the key
Of a true poet’s horn.

The Arena is set with high grand stands,
Craft lit low with silvery flame.
A poet untouched, un-defiled, untamed,
Etched by love, not worldly thread,
In the halls of Caesar, in Herculean bed.
Swords unsheathed on fields of clay,
Truth gripped firm where liars lay.

Clanging in wit, a dream to be made,
The future still waits for the morning’s sway.
But the poet who is flagrant makes the wit sour,
Crafting dawn… the shadow hour.
The meek strike true with trembling hand,
While the loud crack echoes on shifting sand.
But buried in gardens, the scrolls remain,
Waiting for faithful ink to birth truth again.

The inkwell calls with holy demand:
"Take up your pen. Redeem the page."
For beauty once stolen by pirate and queen,
Still lives in the hush between lines unseen.
The waves may rise and kingdoms fall,
But the stars bear witness above it all.
A single petal drifts the sea,
Unfolding still—its mystery.

RebeccaRuth 2025

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Remember by Josh Groban Soundtrack "TROY"