The Pacific Typhoon

The canvas taut, a square of shadowed space, Where sweat and fury leave their brutal trace. Two figures poised beneath the glaring light, A primal dance, a battle in the night. The bell's sharp clang, a signal to engage, A storm of leather, on a furious stage. The jabs like lightning, swift and sharp and clean, A calculated rhythm, a violent scene. The hooks and crosses, thunder in their might, A brutal symphony in fading desperate light. The body blows, a grinding, aching pain, A test of spirit in this driving rain. The ropes a boundary where courage finds its test, A corner's refuge where bruised spirits rest. The count begins, a slow and heavy toll, A fallen warrior, surrendering his soul. The crowd's wild roar, a mix of fear and pride, As battered bodies, their inner strength confide. A clash of titans where legends rise and fall, The boxing ring, a brutal, sacred hall. ©bfa031425