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Poem

There comes a dusk we do not choose,
A hush that steals the flame from fight,
When even victors seem to lose
In shadows cast by fading light.   
 
The moment comes with silent tread,
No trumpet sounds, no grand farewell—
Just echoes where our hopes have fled,
A ringing we remember well.

What dreams we held like sacred thread
Unravel slow in sorrow’s hand,
And all the words we might have said
Fall mute, too heavy now to stand.

The taste of ash, the sting of pride,
The hollowness no crowd can fill—
Defeat sits down and will not hide,
A guest we dine with, wan and still.

Yet in that stillness, something wakes—
A tremor not of shame, but grace.
The soul, though bruised, no longer breaks,
But meets itself in that lost place.

We learn what flesh and spirit bear,
How fragile hope, how fierce regret.
We breathe, and name the open air,
Though not all wounds are healing yet.

Let no one mock the weeping heart—
It weeps because it dared to try.
And in the tears, there lies the art
Of falling low, yet reaching high.

The dust will settle on the field,
The banners drop, the clamor cease.
And only time can gently yield
A fractured path to inner peace.   
                                                
So let the silence have its say—
We need not rush to rise or run.
There is a strength in loss’s way,
A grace in setting down the sun.

And when we walk once more, not bowed,
But tempered by the night we knew,
We'll wear defeat not as a shroud—
But proof we loved, and followed through.

Author: Floyd Neal
Date: May 14, 2025
Inspiration: Analyzing defeat and disappointment

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