Matador

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Matador


It's a bull
slumbering atop 
blossoms beneath
blue and pink
and green between them
whose nectar I would greedily drink
dribbling down my chin
as such is my weakness


Chestnut and blonde
the taut flanks rise
serenely sleeps the beast
notched and splintered
crimson cloves
the taut flanks fall


Stirring my tongue
to talking
and other things
readying fingers
for action
and other things


I can't be sure
without the truth of the eyes
stripped of protections
just how many bones are buried beneath
the scars are well-hidden too
because the bull will not speak


And yet I have a feeling
if I take up my cape and sabre
I'll end up beneath
left broken and bloody
with those cloven marks
pressed
on my damned matador's heart


because it sleeps
and I do not.
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There you have it, post number twelve. (approach with trepidation)