The Last Virtue Poem, by Ariana P., at My poetic side

Kings have honour.

Soldiers have bravery.

Poets have heart.

The kind of things people carve into stone and remember long after the person is gone.

Kings inherit their crowns.

Soldiers inherit their orders.

Poets inherit the burden of feeling everything.

Perhaps I was given something too.

I searched for it in quiet rooms, in old memories, in the faces of people who swore they knew me.

I found nothing noble.

No honour.

No bravery.

No heart worth writing about.

Only this-

this heat beneath my ribs, this thing that refuses to become grief.

I have tried to soften it.

I have named it sadness.

I have called it pain.

I have waited for it to become something

I could forgive.

It never did.

So let the kings keep their honour.

Let the soldiers keep their bravery.

Let the poets keep their hearts.

I have no use for any of them.

All I have is rage.

And somehow,

it is the only thing that stayed.

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아Gㅍ/ Ariana P.

Author: Ariana P. ( Offline)
Published: September 23rd, 2026 19:53
Comment from author about the poem: I think I wanted to write about the things we usually associate with people. Kings have honour. Soldiers have bravery. Poets have heart. They're all qualities that sound admirable-things we'd want to be remembered for. But I wanted to ask what happens when someone feels like they've been left with none of those things. The speaker doesn't have honour, or bravery, or even the ability to turn their feelings into something beautiful. They have rage. And I think the title, The Last Virtue, is meant to leave that question behind: If rage is the only thing you have left, can you still call it a virtue? Or does it only become one because it's the last thing keeping you from becoming nothing at all? "I don't really think the poem has an answer. I think it's more about wondering whether something destructive can still become meaningful when it's all you have left." -아Gㅍ
Category: Reflection
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