Ronda

Enter in,
Peel back the matted present varnished and taped,
Like the clasping hands of bark on a tree,
Rent to reveal history in spiralled stamps.

Come back to Roman rule,
To gladiators dying less than gladly,
All so statesmen had something to discuss in their vestibule,
Whilst historians form analogy.

Meet me there that day,
When echoed steps led us up,
Towards the throb of unison that blood did bay,
Met by halo'd sun set down for our eyes to sup.

This beacon from spiralled gloom,
Framed in drapes that stirred the soul,
Their crimson almost dripping to the Spanish yellow stone,
A swaying warning of the machismo fed cajole.

Hark the silence sent as herald,
Fixed stares held like breath bated and tenterhooked,
The red velvet Rejoneo awaits unperturbed.
Only the horse brays a warning carefully overlooked.

A crack of doors draws cheers,
And out rushes muscle bound in matt black frame,
Long curving horns doing nothing to assuage spectators fears,
Drowned as hooves beat courage from the sane.

And so the dance with death begins,
Passion and instinct uniting the movement of man and steed,
As pivoting hooves drive sand skyward,
And bravery turns anger into a lead.

Deft hands plant snagging flags,
Until the arena is awash in brazen scents,
Slippery ethics swap sound bytes,
Traded for murdered civility and more ancient emotional vents.

Then the final blow is dealt,
The finalé of pride collided,
Left to Tarnished sand hinting a fray.
The victory less important than the display.