National Poetry Month #24

Plus ça change...

Reflection on the nature of contests
 
The blood of a million years seeps down to this —
one dark red fact, clot-thick,
congealed in time while evolution glaciers on:            
            a victory must be won.
 
Base beasts have followed the fittest,                      
the strongest, most virile,
along survival’s timeless path.                        
Though we take pride in our refinement,             
A Beast still stalks within,                
feeding on fears, deflated egos              
and the emotional entrails of those            
whose “weakness” proves there is no second prize.             
It prowls, red eyes glowing,             
waiting for the chance to prove again —              
be it in great conflict or mere race —                  
that, for all our cities, our politics, our religions,              
we’ve not come so very far from wildness.              
 
While ever our generations of walking upright                 
takes us into battle,                    
and our clever opposable thumb                
serves to form a fist;                   
while each comparison, contention and contest                   
must have winners and losers,                        
the Beast lurks,                                      
conflict breeds,                                   
and humankind never shall be so.        

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