Death To A Hero
Slow, as one stares at a clock.
Painful, as needles tearing ones throat.
Easy, as killing a wounded bull.
But, strong as they come
Only came ever so often.
It was a sight to hear
and a sound to see.
The roars of his strength
as he left the bird
back to his homeland
where he’d be an outcast.
He who sits on the red throne
pulling his fists at a man
with only his dignity.
Had there ever lived strength in such a man
when the other had his hands tied?
“They killed him.”
“Who?”, I say.
The bull destined to die
with no clan around
except for his voice
freeing the bounds of his people
before his.
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