Boxer

In the dim-lit gym where leather meets sweat,
A boxer laces up his trusted gloves,
Each breath a rhythm, each heartbeat a metronome,
Preparing for the dance within the squared ring.

He jabs like a swift winter wind,
Crosses with the force of a north‑sea gale,
Hooks that curl like smoke from a factory chimney,
Uppercuts that rise as the sun over Whitby cliffs.

The crowd’s roar is a distant tide,
Yet his focus stays sharp as a Sheffield blade,
Every slip, every weave, a tale of grit and grace,
Forged in the fire of relentless training.

When the bell tolls, he steps forward—
Not merely a fighter, but a poet of punch,
Writing verses in sweat and sinew,
Until the final bell sings his quiet triumph.