Matador

The rage burns red,
Furious, monstrous,
Destroying the beauty
That, unwilling, runs
And rushes before it.

The devil slaughters
All innocent life
In the name of sporty,
The sword stabs, ruby jabs,
Cutting deep, harsh, jagged.

Crimson flows, stains
The arena with the animals
Dreams, loves, fears, furry,
The watching daemons cheer,
What devils are these?

Torturer of innocence
For pointless pleasure,
Perverse matador, evil
Incarnate, the bull knows not
Why you mutilate and maim it so,

Only knowing it wants to live,
Fighting, tears weep like its
Dying scarlet life force,
“Why me”, vermilion words,
In the name of sport.

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Poem © Phen Weston

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