Stoned Sangria Sunset, brazen bull breath baiting
The caballeros crowding the tapas night...
Where the only commitment needed is waiting
To stanch the paralytic fear of morning. The Fright.
Running from: dusted destiny on cloven hooves
Through pain-wracked alleys alight with cries
Of challenged machismo, scored by notched grooves
Cut into cobbles where the injured writhe, attracting flies.
Running to: a safe place, a sturdy gate, a saving arm;
A life spared for another year
In which to plan the sprint from here to harm;
From feared impalement upon Fortune's Spear.
Once more the bulls and runners chase across the page,
As I sit in my room, and write... and age.
Observations, obfuscations, and other oddities.. Enjoy, and thanks for reading. Tom
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