I am a matador, my mother told me so
She brought the message to me all the way from San Francisco
She said, “Hold this cloak tight in your hands,
you’re destined for achievement.
With it cut a swath through life and your path into the pavement.”
I don’t want to say I’ve lost my faith in swords and capes,
but my blood is just as red
and this matador is weary of winding and sweeping
in every direction, all this is just distraction
not real protection from the weakness inside.
This mirrored armor reflects the smiles of those who come to see,
But I’m not so sure as they who the casualty is supposed to be
If I never fight the fight the outcome can stay mystery
If you never were you always could have been
and I owe nothing to history.
Can’t this battle wait for later, maybe never,
never’s better, never’s safer
I don’t want to work this hard forever
I can omit, it’s not an error,
but the fairer of two choices that are mine, not yours, to make.
Why try when effort begets more of the same?
Every day a new beast to fight to preserve my name.
What if I refuse, would horns still cut me and once cheering hands abuse?
I am a matador, my mother told me so
But how many bulls must I fight before I am allowed to go?
With every win my reputation only spreads and grows,
But one day I will miss a step and fall beneath the horns.
©2002 heather lloyd
