The End
After he swollowed his defeat
And fell into the dread silence,
If no longer had the need to cheat,
No tower of strength and balance;
And toppled into bed
A moan tearing his belly;
There he stayed for
A bunch of blue moons,
Not looking out soon
From steamed-up windows
Of yellow and brown
-fear-
Till death was near.
Then he arose and went out,
Only to fuss and fight,
Drink a mighty bunch of beer
That he expelled,
The color of blood.
As his lingering body
Began finally to flood,
He passed on and returned from whence he came: the mud.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Added by Poetry Lover
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