Wrest

In the hushed arena where muscles gleam,
Two bodies meet, a silent, straining dream—
A twist, a pull, the ancient art to wrest
Each limb a question, each grip a quest.

The crowd’s low murmur rolls like distant tide,
Whilst sweat becomes the ink on skin‑deep pride.
No crown of gold, but honour’s fragile thread,
Woven in the heat where rivals are led.

A sudden heave, a breath held, then released—
The mat receives the fall, the victor’s feast
Is not in roar, but in the quiet pride
Of knowing strength, when fear and doubt subside.

So let the sport be more than mere display—
A dance of wills, where night yields unto day,
And every wrestler, in their earnest quest,
Finds in the wrestle of themselves their best.