An ode to the Lord of Darkness incarnation of the Undertaker...
Squared circle bounds the lion's sphere,
Paced perimeter of strife,
Mere measured tread his foe's full fear;
His hands are claws, his eyes a knife.
This beast births thoughts too sore for sport,
Vast sorrows loom like mountains dim,
His hardships hid, a flinty fort
Enshrouds his woe; ne'er weep for him.
Compassion: mercy: strangers these,
Frailty finds no helping hand,
If thou aspir'st his anguish ease
Assail him well; assert thy stand.
Mysterious, his famed might flares,
Seared white in fury all his darks;
Lash out, unearth his unseen lairs,
Divulge to day his grievous marks.
For in his hurts invisible,
He rages; rude, a predator,
Wild splendor indivisible,
His every goal imbued with gore.
Contest him, skirmish 'til one falls,
Mayhap a mortal blow inflict,
Though cryptic inclination calls
Thee to his clasp, his claims reject.
He will at last succeed in strength,
Certain, contrary subject thou,
Leave mortality's brief length,
What life thou hast, to him endow.
Conquered, thou'lt confirm him well;
Yield: uncloak thy king's desire,
Thy struggles cease; in him thou dwell,
Divest thy flesh: his favorite dire.
Endure, ere all sensation cease,
Caress of cold and potent hand;
What exultation his embrace,
The lion's lord in his own land.