I stand in that hot ring alone and bitt’r,
Waiting for my fate with no fear or doubt,
The soft ground grips my feet as I speed hither,
Searching for a path and avoid this bout.

Crowds run fast to escape my pounding feet,
Falling, jumping climbing to avoid sharp horns,
Fear filled eyes, pound’ng hearts in beat,
Red and white are in his sight like ugly thorns.

The bull unaware of what has transpir’d,
The matador sword ready, it’s stance firm and lithe
Look’ng for that soft shoulder spot so desir’d,
That bright red cape provocative, as it writhe.

Down strikes the searing steel to enter it’s flesh,
Ending the bulls rage, and love, that hidden mesh.