Vibrant and red was the blood that dripped from its horns.
The splendor of colour was a betrayal of the scene, which whispered and seeped away into the drains.  
Even the bull’s head hung low
As the silence gagged and dragged the colour from the plaza.
The magnificent beasts sweat rolls off its ribs,
Which rise up
And down,
Long and hard
Saliva dripping from its slack jaws darkening the sand with its low hung muzzle.
A cruel decoration runs along it’s back of
colorful harpoons.

As the bulls horns drip with the blood of the matador who lays as a shell
In front of it.  His traje de luces, now seems inappropriate,
too flamboyant for the air of death.
Like loud chatter in an old church hall.

It’s reward and glorious prize;
A first-class trip to the nearest abattoir.

Lance out its eyes and dismember its body
what was whole take it and pull it apart
rubbed out and re-drawn,
Living becomes meat.
The entertained now want to be the fed.