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A Pro-wrestler's Psfumato

Ryan Farrar


Static; still

Glistening Ropes surround the illumined chair,
A spotlight gleams off four-legged beams.
With a chrome face, laced in a phosphorescent base,
Subdued in uniform stagnation,
Giving no hint of its vindication.
So many stories; so precious
So rare
With reflections trapped inside,
Hiding the screams and the dreams of a pastime.
Look in the distance and one may see,
The silhouettes of wrestling; subtle and

Chaotic; perpetual

A malicious crack across the back,
Enforcing a deafening pain.
A raging blood flow sent off its track
A clang! Bang! She rang…
Crimson stains chafe the mat,
Mixing with a vial of sweat.
Now engraved with a permanent “tat,”
Scars that a wrestler never forgets.
Scalding tears roll down faces
and Stitches sew up lacerations.
Stepping out from the scene,
one may come to find
A glass of wine can toasts these crimes,
A memorial against the sterile mind.