once in a fight, there wasn’t a right, only wrong to ring the ground–
a left, a right, thrown aside, thrown over and worth a try–
if he faked, I would push; if he would thrash, I would flail–
a grip never breaking, eyes on the trail–
when there was a mistake, there was a break–
breathing through each dashing take–
the dust only cleared when the trumpets blared–
harsh and down to bloody flair–
a trend to reach the sounded tear–
with no despair to steal the ware–

it was frantic, with flashes, and a final thought
to never back down again, even against the rain
to sustain the light above.