After A Defeat

after losing a thick-armed struggle
with others gleefully unlike me

I am overthrown and then
as I am laid out by blows

upon dirt and scrub lawn
I stare up at sky of bruise-hue

in early dusk and imagine
I will rise at first slit of sun

on horizon 
this view is called hope and

is a bane of those
with whom I struggle 

their thick arms no match
for that sliver of sun

which prompted a belief
of potential resurgence

in a beaten skull
and soul

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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