Proud No More

Poem By Pamela B. Robinson

The black bull's body was slick
with blood, sweat and mud
as it was dragged out of the areas.
Once proud,
he would prance and charge
at curious people poking their heads through
the dry cracked boards oh is pen--
dust swirling into the air.
He was proud no more.
He was the defeated.
The victor was the matador.

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