"The Victor" - Bahamas AI Art
©A. Derek Catalano
To The Victor Go The Spoils
To the victor go the spoils, they say,
The gilded prize, the hunted prey—
A bounty piled with triumph's hand,
Claimed by the strongest in the land.
But what cost must the victor bear,
To scale the peaks, to conquer there?
In fields of green and skies of red,
The battles rage, the blood is shed;
Beneath the weight of war’s demand,
A throne is won, a life is spanned.
For glory’s light, so bright and fair,
Leaves shadows deep beyond repair.
Who fights for fame, who fights for peace?
Who bears the scars that never cease?
To stake the flag, to plant the seal,
To feel the steel, to grasp, to kneel.
What fire burns within the breast,
Of victors bold and foes at rest?
The spoils gleam in victory’s crown,
Jewels hoarded, heaped, renowned—
Gold untouched by flesh or bone,
Yet cold as stone, and carved alone.
Does treasure warm the hand that takes,
Or haunt the mind that victory breaks?
For every step toward triumph’s throne,
Is marked by those who fought alone;
And every cheer that fills the air,
Is paid in full by deep despair.
Yet victors rise, for this they crave,
And many march into the grave.
But what is left when banners fade,
And echoes die, and debts are paid?
The fleeting thrill, the hurried cheer,
The cries of joy, the taste of fear.
To win, to gain, to stand, to soar,
Yet always wanting something more.
In golden halls and silvered courts,
The victors walk, the spoils retort—
They ask no price, they bear no blame,
But echo still each fallen name.
And all the world, in silent shame,
Sees fortune’s tide, a hollow game.
So to the victor go the spoils, they say—
But glory fades, and gold decays.
The taste of triumph sweetly sours,
As time reclaims both prize and power.
And in the end, the spoils of war
Are but the shadows victors wore.
A victor’s tale, in full, complete,
Is bound by scars, a bitter feat.
For every gain, there lies a cost,
The spoils won are treasures lost.
To the victor go the spoils, they say,
The gilded prize, the hunted prey—
A bounty piled with triumph's hand,
Claimed by the strongest in the land.
But what cost must the victor bear,
To scale the peaks, to conquer there?
In fields of green and skies of red,
The battles rage, the blood is shed;
Beneath the weight of war’s demand,
A throne is won, a life is spanned.
For glory’s light, so bright and fair,
Leaves shadows deep beyond repair.
Who fights for fame, who fights for peace?
Who bears the scars that never cease?
To stake the flag, to plant the seal,
To feel the steel, to grasp, to kneel.
What fire burns within the breast,
Of victors bold and foes at rest?
The spoils gleam in victory’s crown,
Jewels hoarded, heaped, renowned—
Gold untouched by flesh or bone,
Yet cold as stone, and carved alone.
Does treasure warm the hand that takes,
Or haunt the mind that victory breaks?
For every step toward triumph’s throne,
Is marked by those who fought alone;
And every cheer that fills the air,
Is paid in full by deep despair.
Yet victors rise, for this they crave,
And many march into the grave.
But what is left when banners fade,
And echoes die, and debts are paid?
The fleeting thrill, the hurried cheer,
The cries of joy, the taste of fear.
To win, to gain, to stand, to soar,
Yet always wanting something more.
In golden halls and silvered courts,
The victors walk, the spoils retort—
They ask no price, they bear no blame,
But echo still each fallen name.
And all the world, in silent shame,
Sees fortune’s tide, a hollow game.
So to the victor go the spoils, they say—
But glory fades, and gold decays.
The taste of triumph sweetly sours,
As time reclaims both prize and power.
And in the end, the spoils of war
Are but the shadows victors wore.
A victor’s tale, in full, complete,
Is bound by scars, a bitter feat.
For every gain, there lies a cost,
The spoils won are treasures lost.
©A. Derek Catalano/ChatGPT
Related Poem: May the Best Man Win
