In between rounds, the protagonist is in
his corner now, bleeding, and dizzy.
'You've gotten soft on me, my boy.
You're no longer the heart I know,
why have you shape-shifted so?
I know you're still in there, my boy.
I know you're still in there.'
Two days sooner, this would be no match,
but he has forgotten who he is,
and he has lost his form.
He's freezing, he's choking,
but within his frozen bones, a faint ember
smolders in its cage, from long ago.
'I've been here before, I know this sir,
I return again, but nevermind that sir.
The stances change, while the numbers
of the date, and of the time,
'Time does not repeat itself.
I'll make sure of that.'
The man lost sensation,
the balance had returned.
Our hero came out swinging,
ferocity in his bones
set aflame by the ember,
and as he found his victory,
he knew his power was not from the fire,
but it was the steam from the ice.
That brought him back to life.
Comments about this poem (Between Rounds by Mike Dolch )
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