Corrida Poem by Neil Crawford

Any average matador faces bulls with needle horns,
a visible enemy of muscle and bone,
of calculable strength.

But what use swords, daggers, lances against
unseen opponents? , whose base is your own being,
inward and hidden, traitorous to your person? .

There will be no torreadors to save us
when we fall foul of the heart's thundering hooves,
deafened by the cries of blood maddened crowds.

When, trampled underfoot, we lie bleeding into
rapture's sand and ecstasy's absorbing sawdust,
awaiting that last thrust, that final 'coup de grace'.