You feel proud,
You think nothing can come,
Not with the roaring crowd,
But your hands feel numb,
As the opponent steps in,
He’s tall and strong,
And he’s wearing the smuggest grin,
But you still fell that the arena is where you belong,
And you’re ready to boast,
Even if you’ll die,
The arena will probably be haunted by your ghost,
And then you feel like you’ll cry,
As he charges,
And you stand there,
And now he looks so large,
And you are so thin and fair,
Rather than his appearance of burly and tough,
And you are so small,
And he is so rough,
And so tall,
And you raise your sword,
And think “Help me, lord”,
But he raises it,
And lowers it,
And you can already feel the hit,
But it’s far too late,
And you can hardly wait,
And you feel the split,
Of the armor,
And you feel like a ragged farmer,
In the pain,
And you can see the blood stain,
Perhaps you are not so conceited any more.
© Copyright 2016 Audrey Wilson. All rights reserved.
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