We are a cult of the broken
Within the confines of these four ‘homely’ walls.
Our ring, in which we do our dance
Ready to rumble, to throw down.
Not with body slams
But with other powerhouse jabs
Of left-hooks to egos
And uppercuts to hopes and dreams.
No evidence of thrashing around
Like banging pots and pans
And shards of broken dishes strewn about
But instead bellowing war calls escape through dirty louvered windows
And paper thin apartment walls
Who will be the one to bend and break?
This is a knock-out tournament
Here, we fight to the death
Always on our guard
Boot camp in full swing
You sleep next to your enemies
Watching their every move
Uncovering their biggest weaknesses
To mount your strongest defense
Tearing them to shredded fibres
Until the warrior armour is unidentifiable.
And when the word-darts cease their flight
And the insult dust settles
The crowds crane their necks
Awaiting the revelation of the victor…
To the infirmary your body wheels
your welcomed temporary haven.
In your peaceful comatose state
Thinking you escaped even for a while.
But the projections of your oppression
And the inhibitions that have held you down
Fly like missiles
Bee lining straight to the core of ‘the real you’
Who sits trembling in the corner
Behind the façade of your ‘big talk’ and ‘hot shot’ walk
Waiting for the explosive impact
Hoping for the real taste of tranquility.
It is done.
Light fades, darkness engulfs you
And you finally drift away…
But only into a new day.
There is seemingly no war today
No opponent waiting to demolish you in the ring.
Still readying yourself as a precaution,
You stare at the reflection of this wounded fighter
With the quizzical eyes, sheepish smirk and
Holding the heavy black life stealer
Square to the temple.
So there WILL be a fight today
Against your strongest adversary
Who looks you DEAD in the eyes.
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words will SURELY be the death of me.