The world's a tennis court

The world is a parted rectangular lawn
With two gentlemen apart,
One at a side
And the other at another side;
Each man born a conqueror;
Has his ways bounded by oppositions,
The prime enemy, the net, being a perilous barrier.
At the wars, every incoming ball is a challenging instance.
But Whosoever learns to win before the war,
Counters defeat ―holds a greater fraction to his destiny.

There may be traitors ―a racket broken to the enemy's advantage.
And the inner man ―the confidence within,
Whose zeal in any day could die like a melting butter.

When rallies come long,
These feet may tremble
With the arm hardened like wax.
But do not give up so soon.
Should you seek a favorable wall to lean upon?
Not the lines men nor the fallible umpire ―our greatest betrayal.
Who by external influence may foul the virtue of fidelity.
No matter how beautiful the swings seem,
In no case will all commendations be handsome and pleasing.
There's always one man with a scornful applause in the stands.

Is the arm broken?
Stiff and hardening like wax?
Unable to make the ace?
Like death, this is how injury comes
Exiting us from this rectangular field
Of spins
Of volleys
Of slices
Of adversaries
Of beautiful swings and aces.
This is how death comes;
Vainly plucking our unripened dreams.
This is how death comes;
Game―
Set―
And a sorrowful match.


© Awuah Mainoo Gabriel
African Spear