Pitbull Blood Sport Poem by soren Barrett

In the fuzzy hour of sleep, reality sifts
in rifts of soft smokey drifts.
Sweet slumber shifts to the chill of acid tears.
The wonder of lace and mirrors, becomes a placid sackcloth of fears.
A blunder does erase white down clouds to dark shadows.
In thunder a clown's snickering face lauds love, beckoning stark decay of the gallows.
In dreams shallows, I sold my essence, receiving the prey of nightmares.
An echo screams in a hole where, adolescence lost my soul, deceiving white hairs.
I'm a dog in a fight against Cerberus' rage in the betting pit.
Released in a fog, from the cage, a loss, in a murderous double cross, that dries spit.
I've been bit, ears torn. Too late! Rabid, howls and growls fill the air.
As I sit, in scorn, at hell's gate, foaming jowls, gnashing teeth bare.
Crowds swear, cheer, bet, jeer, sweat, stare, there's a fist fight and drunken brawl.
But in this lair no one dares, shed a tear or care, nothing makes this right at all.
Hair and flesh tear, I've got no time for thought in my plight.
Put on the spot, although I fought, I shrink from the bite.
Blood's terror runs hot, like a dog caught, by his throat in a fight.
Here you can't take a dive, only one leaves the pit alive, a grip on my neck so tight.
Don't let em out of your sight, despite a broken leg, don't beg, no matter the fright.
Might I, from this blood sport, find my way free?
You're right, I retort, this depends entirely upon me.