Pugilist of the grim streets, bruised and scarred,
Ears battered by fists, tales of pain and pride,
A fighter's life, each punch taken, earned hard,
Sweat, blood, tears blend in the ring where dreams died.
Gloves up, chin tucked, he stands firm in the ring,
Cauliflower ears, worn like medals of war,
Each bout, a dance where the punches still sting,
A struggle for honor, no room to ignore.
Beneath bright lights, his battle cries echo,
A symphony of pain, a fighter's refrain,
Defeated or triumphant, bruises show,
His story etched in flesh, no need to explain.
In every blow, in every round, we see,
A portrait of the struggle to stay free.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 29th, 2024 10:25
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Mase ♪
Offline)
Comments1
A story of badges earned in life and cleverly etched in flesh as well as word. Beautifully crafted this is a wonderful piece of art
Thanks Soren, I was watching boxing last night and that's how I got the idea
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