The Matador and the Beast
In the golden ring where echoes swell,
A dance of death begins to tell.
The matador, in suit so fine,
With crimson cape and stance divine.
The beast, a titan forged in night,
Its hooves ignite the dust in flight.
Dark eyes ablaze with burning fire,
A tempest fueled by primal ire.
A flick, a twirl, the cloth unfurls,
The bull charges, its fury swirls.
Steel in hand, the man stands tall,
A hero poised to rise—or fall.
The crowd erupts in fevered cries,
A life at stake beneath their eyes.
Blade meets flesh, a final breath,
A waltz of grace, a dance with death.
Yet in the dust, a truth remains,
Two warriors bound in fate’s cruel chains.
For though one stands, and one must fall,
The price is paid by both—
by all.
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