The Ballad of the Blossoming Bull

foggy spirits unfurl from his flared nasal crypts, with each snort and snarl and curl of his lips, the bull stands before me, unshakably strong- he knows who I am, and I must prove him wrong. i’ve beaten and shoved him, though I trip as I try, but no matter my method the beast never dies, he’s bitten me, trampled me, bruised me and gored and for each scar inflicted, I’ve evened the score. I kicked at his hooves and I’ve slashed him with knives, we’ve bitterly tousled for most of our lives- he bellows his bluff, stares me down with daggers, but I’ve grown unmoved by the force of his swagger. for the ways that he’s hurt me are nothing compared, to the time that I’ve wasted feeling rageful, and scared. it could go on forever, or end the next moment- in this sick stalemate, will we live to have known it? at the brink of my gumption, I’ve no choice but to try- picking sweet smelling flowers as small as his eyes, a concilate crown, wide enough for his horns, he eyes me uncertain, yet bows to be adorned. tho we won’t be fooled into thinking he’s tamed, for now a respite has been put to our game- i’m no longer his hostage, his master, his whore- while the flowers are nourished by his violent allure.