Toro
Through smoke blinded eyes
the Torero launches
a savage fusillade of blows.
Neatly pulverizing
the winter’s guardian.
He has been immortalized,
beneath the banners and braying,
shrouding the entrenched truths,
that he is only an Italian,
who holds the mental liberty
to know that the fast money,
his bread and butter,
are nothing compared to
the underestimated life,
which held no hope
for exoneration.
His woes muted
by the people’s self-cannibalism
and ineligible screams.
“He was too brave!
Too brave to spend a precious bullet
on that charging monster!”
Giving himself approval for demolition
of his processional grandeur,
with a robust exchange he stands,
“This fighter’s taking a break.”
The zombie president a mere citizen,
moving on to hiatus.
Reporters remember him
as a pulpy dream.
The citizenry
full of themselves,
their hubristic nature
creating an impeccable wall,
guarding them from nirvana.
Leaving only the Torero,
to break on through
to the other side.
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