The Battle

There was once a battle,
Between the poem and the prose,
Who would conquer,
And who would sell.
They met, speech to speech,
From time to time.
Their's was a forlorn battle,
Subtle.

The words they whispered,
Flew to the humblest of ears,
With the colour of breeze,
And the fury of thunder.

At the other end stood I,
Stood you,
Brooding over whispers,
Silently,
Listening.
While we caught a breeze,
Refusing to descend.
And caught a thunder,
Declining to be contained.

For blood must shed in a battle,
Words must be spared too.
And we witnessed an end,
Under an incessant rain,
Of some men who danced,
And some women drunk.
While somewhere else,
A battle remained.