Brave, unafraid, determined as he stares down his bull
crimson is the tip of the sword, dripping as the crowds cheer.
Black as thunder, eyes on fire with rage, red is his tongue
as it spits out saliva with wrath.
Nostrils flared, sweat and steam joined,
this locomotive kicks up dust as he charges to his death.
The audience is quieted, the matador stands proud,
undaunted he crosses his heart with his sword,
and salutes his foe with a bow.
Vincent Moore: May 2013