What compels a man to fight?
To step inside the ring of life,
And wrestle time with all it’s might.
And to be bloodied and bruised,
By truths unglued,
Of steady disappoints and love refused,
And gut punching failure infused,
With a lust of rage dripping from recused lips.
The swing of the hips signals impact with closed fists,
And the ring of the bell says we made it through hell.
The sweat that pours over the wounds and sores,
Tell us that life is a battle,
Filled with destruction and meaning,
Of love and clinging,
Of tears and laughter,
And the gust of power we seek after.
And the battle is never over,
Just a little reprieve until we can recover,
And steady our aim so that we can discover,
That life is time,
And time will change.
For change is our master,
A teacher who is unbiased,
Never judging but instructing,
Never hating, but loving.
And we end as Warriors,
Tasting the bittersweet battleground,
Exhausted but renewed,
Transfused by a ray of satisfaction,
That only the battle hardened can accrue.

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