Wednesday, February 04, 2009


Another match another fall
another after hours brawl
the greatest strength that he can claim
is living with forgotten fame;
they used to cheer like maniacs
while imitating his attacks,
the stadiums would overflow
to watch him land that trademark blow.

But age comes on with no holds barred
to leave a body frail and scarred
as weak as bulbs that don’t illume
each moldy, dingy motel room
he’s flopped in after every fight
since his defeat that fated night
just like the one they’ll find him in
when he at last can’t shake the pin.


Noah the Great said...

Ooh! Past victors can't stay on top forever, I suppose.

Anonymous said...

This is a nice poem.

rch said...

Hi Noah, yes I suppose not.

Hey Matt, thanks.