I still love fist-knuckle bruising,
Part of why pacifism is so hard.
The monk within,
Chains wrapped around his forearms,
Riding the manic cryptid.
Demon beneath the flesh.
Wading into the fray,
Part beatdown –
Part performance.
Old wrestling moves,
Tae Kwon Do roundhouses.
Uppercuts and headbutts.
The old ways of solving one’s problems.
Pugilism at the finest.
Bareknuckle boxing.
Marquess of Queensberry rules.
Hah.
We were savages.
Brutish beasts,
Barely human –
Treated like animals.
Lesser.
What else could be expected?
Back and forth brawls,
Clawing one’s way to another day of survival.
The monk is silent.
The demon flails.
The wyrm hungers.
Easing the tension in my brow.
Artificial rain,
Drowning out heartbeats.
A thousand screaming corpses,
Pulled from a thousand nightmares.
Monsters slain,
Hand and tooth.
Evil killing evil,
Ad nauseam.
Ad infinitum.
Waking dreams,
Haunting.
Never dreamt.
Only death.
Fighting.
Old habits,
Dying hard.
It’s hard to die.
I’ve tried.
Swinging fists like windmills.
Let me fight giants.
Monsters.
Devour cryptids.
May he stand fast against the darkness.
Epitaph For An Old Roughneck Pugilist Who Converted To Pacifism.
