Seeking Evidence that Proved My Soul Existence Concrete
Beleaguered by the brutalizing cries for the brawler, stood I; a boxer misunderstood
The palpitations of my heart discordantly pacing with the dehumanizing snarls; the jury's jeers
The overture to the chapters of torture avowed with the closing of all doors
Reviving, revoking and compelling me to reminisce the imprisonment of my body; confined with the spirit of fears.
Absconding from the abyss of contemplations, expressing myself to such an extent,
Where my physique was in alignment with the harmony bursting forth from every cell
Every displacement of my influence a derisory attempt to slake my thirst;
Doing so like but a mere dancer, swerving his hand in allegro to the bent hook one is in desperate need of, to have kissed the canvas.
Deliberately slugging the bolo - punch to divert the barnburner,
The boxer rose to what seemed like three feet, recovering from the hazy vertigo and blurred lines streaked across his retina.
Rhythmically moving to the staccato thudding, almost at length's ear, repeating the failure of the flash- knockdown,
I fixated every part of my body on the locomotion of adage, finally eradicating the enemy with raw power, a single deflective blow; the finishing touch.
I was no more a boxer than a singer, but a danseur dancing for sanity,
At the height of the audience's applause, pirouetting for perfection.
After leaving my opponent in Queer Street,
Once again, I sought evidence that proved my soul existence concrete.
Taniesha Vaswani - Aged 12 - South Africa
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