Life swirled cape-like before him,
A challenge to his heart,
That organ beating soundly
Though his soul oft ripped apart.
Even when the matador
Stood statue-like and still,
The wind would flap the cape ends
As a torture to his will.
He charged at it quite blindly,
Needing surcease from some rage
That lingered in his corners
Formed too early in his age.
And even when the thrusting horns
Of his anger found their mark,
The pain remained, was always there,
Naked, raw, and stark.
His skin could scarce contain
The seething... rising quick...
That often trampled underfoot
His peace, and left him sick.
For he was born a lover
Who'd not found his thing to love,
Whose song was muted, muffled,
Forced to wear a strangling glove.
He thought that he'd forgotten
Or, maybe, never even known,
That place where capes were folded,
And roses never thrown.
Where all the roaring crowds
In the arenas of his mind,
Never yelled for blood, for death,
But smiled...and were kind.
JO ANZALONE