THE BULL

Wipe the blood from my brow, I’ve seen much worse than this

Take me into the stalls, the best seats, those ruddy-red plush ones

Where centre of stage they all can feel me, glimpse this animals rage

Not bottled or canned – everyone full-on sees me bold, out of my cage

Exposed to the glare of the sun with my balls hanging free 

Ive seen the obstacles, I know the score, My chances are faint

My weak heart is racing, My sides ache – these wounds scalding-sore

The riders taunting, matador painting – splashed in this animals blood

No time for this bovine to stand aimless, guileless, chewing farmers’ cud 

My place in a march of destiny, I am a creature of meat in August-prime

No care for mens triviality, taken up with the facile of words in rhyme

Life itself, the power of brutal form adorned with behemoth’s mantle

Rid of faceless graces, all traces of the hypocrites scorn or of habits worn

I paw the earth, a storm of dust where men fight freedom & their lust

I shake my head bowed and rush to meet this foe, this final friend

Who draws my pain, my blood, my death, my final breath and lays me to the ground    

..

          writtenbyedenbray01.09.2019