The Potter's Pizza

In an existence dear,
beyond spinning stories,
I see a man,
who bakes ​good-​natured
fighters in a clay mould.
Men, they are but clay,
baked in fire, hardened...
yet brittle to reality.

And, in that dream
I see myself​,​
young and grinning,
toss a pizza,
a perfect circle,
made on a potter's wheel
which spins epic tales.
Unlike the boy​
I keep meeting over coffee
at my dressing table.

Is the fighter dead?

There, by the red woods,

under a Silicon canopy

that exudes, attracts power,
I saw its steely desire
to climb up...

Creeping along the

bare, brick canvas:

the world as we built it.

Blinded by the lustful flashes

of the one with might,

reaching for the source

of his power,

the upper balconies

of the city

where Lodi reigned,

Modi reigns.

And, in the dark

I see,

lies justified by hope,

I behold a mission,

a questioning vision,

I find the return gift...

A fight still remains in me, but is the fighter dead?

The Fighter!

Comfortably numb at
the knuckles,
but the fighter cries...
The pain remains,
still,
of the elusive
showdown with destiny,
with shadows, the reality.

The draw is simple,
again,
but the warrior burns,
for he has forgot
what pain is...
Yes, what exactly is pain?

-- Few lines in honour of Mike Tyson

Pic: cyberboxingzone.com