The Boxer

        He moves through the tunnel and into the light.
        He stares at the crowd in awe of the sight.
        And the arena is cold, but his robe keeps him warm.
        He looks to his opponent, observing his form.
        He prepares for a battle as he nears the squared ring.
        There can be only one victor, and only one king.
        Suddenly he's there, the moment arrives.
        He cannot look back, on the future he thrives.
        He enters the ring, full ready to fight.
        He sheds off his robe and feels the cold night.
        He starts to hesitate, he feels unready.
        His shoulders are weak, his hands are unsteady.
        With the ring of a bell, the fight has begun.
        It's too late to quit, he's too close to run.
        Emotion takes over and the boxer rushes in.
        A barrage of punches to stomach and chin.
        But none of them land, the opponent stands tall.
        The boxer is stunned, why didn't he fall?
        His answer is swift, a mightiful punch.
        In his stomach a push, in his chest a crunch.
        And so the fight goes, blow after blow,
        The boxer meets air, with throw after throw.
        And the boxer endures.  What else can he do?
        His whole body trembles as the pain travels through.
        And the boxer is tired, and his legs have grown weak.
        His body so broken, so his spirit so meak.
        And he misses his robe, and the warmth it provided.
        He misses the strength, in the figure it hided.
        So the boxer gives in, and he falls to the ground.
        He hears not a whisper, he hears not a sound.
        And he closes his eyes as the crowd knew he would.
        And accepts his cruel fate, as every man should.

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