It’s an orgy of bright, bright colors
A spectacle of blood…
And a dirt laced ballet
Where the dancers are in love with
(Adore rather)
Bulls, flowers, and the beauty
Of death.
Hooves and horns
Against cape and inconsistent
Wit…
It is a battle ages old and lacking
In decent
Grim recognition…
One miscalculated thrust
Sidestep or snort
And the curtain closes…
The synchronization seemingly gone
On some long
Long holiday…
Leaving one single performer still standing…
If beast
Hailed and revered as the
Murderer of men…
If man
He earns the right to be crowned
Called and exalted…
Matador
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