Punchbag

In the distance, the permanent close distance,
The uniform tempo looms.
It booms.
The steady, slow, dull, dread, drone of a timpani of tyranny.
The throbbing thud of armour-plated hooves on the ground,
Heavy and steady,
Marching in perfect time.
Cloaked in shadows with no weight,
They weigh in with punches made of leaden leather memories.
Jabs of childhood,
Crosses of marriage,
Parental uppercuts,
Pounding, pounding, pounding.
One after another, after another, slugging deep into the body,
Bruising tired muscles and bones,
Battering tortured heart and mind.
Relentless.
Resistance assumes the guise of a winter’s sun.
Invisible hands grasp for fog shrouded ropes.
But the rhythm of failure never falters.
On and on it marks time with tapping talons,
That drive nails through feet,
Keeping the target pinned in place,
A weighted punchbag with split seams,
A sagging, battered body hanging in mid air.
And the referee counts;
1;
2;
3;
4;
5;
6;
7;
8;
9;
Then the seconds come to the rescue,
With arms under armpits, they lift him up,
Just in time,
Just in time for the next round,
The next round of the sound,
That same old sound,
The sound,
Of the pound,
Pound,
Pound,
Pound,
Pound.