The clock slows to a stop and stares
At my pencil, my paper, my thoughts
Waiting for something profound
But my abilities are lost
This haze is a metaphor
These words are a matador
And I am a bull trying to charge
But running only into the red
The crowd waits for my failure
But I am determined to put on a show
I will not be hoisted upon a mantel
For the viewers high and low
I will write these words
I will treat them as if the red
Were a target for my victory
And get inside their heads
I am a Taurus of the moment
There’s nothing stronger for you to see
I will move past my demise
And these thoughts will be set free
So I move into a stance
And I cock my head to the side
Get ready to charge into the red
Or so everyone thinks this time
My target is but one
It stands there with a smirk
I’ll charge it at the last second
And the crowds will see my worth
The clock slowly starts to count
And my thoughts are free again
And the matador is lying there
With no one to attend
So I put my pencil down
My victory is sweet
I close my pages and then my eyes
This bull is anything but weak
Brockman ©