The Pugilist Poem by Jojoba Mansell

Weathered brow, a face constructed,
moulded, beaten into the visage of a man's.
Hammered by hooks, shaped by jabs, forged by crosses,
a story told in flesh, of bouts, of wins, of losses.

Barrel chested, broad backed, washboard abs,
carved from granite, chiselled in the gym.
Hewn from living flesh over mile upon mile on the road,
sculpted with pound upon pound in the gym.

Arms, despite the ravages of age, still viper-quick,
honed on the speed bag, guided through sparring.
Legs, agile as a dancer's, feet traversing to the music of the ring,
practised in round after round, in minutes drenched in sweat.

Heart burning like a furnace, a steel cage holding a hungry tiger,
fuelled by the thrill of the fight, the taste of victory, the fear of losing.
A desire tapped from the eons old desire to fight and conquer,
coming to the twilight of his years, he fights on.

He is a painting, painted in blood, sweat and sometimes tears.
He is a sculpture, shaped through exercise and moulded with dedication.
He is a song, sang in loss, hummed in victory, a melancholy tune.
He is a pugilist, alone beneath those lights he lives, he fights.