The Matador

The bugle of war sounds attention to life.

Eyes fixed on the oncoming bull reaper,

The matador unfurls courage with a born gesture.

Surrounding eyes come to see awaiting death,

And either cry to hear cheers at last.

The custom suit of lights escapes the bull’s blind eye,

And ire, set in motion by movement, can’t be undone.

Color, spectacle to mask an impending end,

Dyes the cloth held tight but for a moment.

The charging animal rears its scythe-like head,

And void of emotion, changes the sport’s course.

Armed with observation of prior rounds,

The man plans and foresees victory.

With sticks crisscrossed across its back,

Planted by matador disciples, the bull

Stops its first pursuit for mortal survival,

While the reaper man christens his lance

With the beast’s still beating but voiding energy.

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