If This Ring Could Reminisce
If this ring could reminisce, I would tell you of every kiss, from each man who has passed through. Young to old, their lives are made inside of me. They are erected and perfected, imploded and demoted, inside of me. Behind these ropes clumsy feet turn professional as they learn the dance, that their forefathers roughly stepped, the boots laced to their feet never faltering. They pirouette and two-step until there's nothing left to tie the laces.
I've seen my share of tears, fallen hard onto this canvas. The pain lingers and builds not only in weathered bodies, but in lonely, troubled, hearts and minds of those who give beyond what most can imagine. Even behind the brawniest and surliest and most scarred bodies are souls. You would all do good to remember those ghosts which are imprisoned inside, glimpses momentarily had through those windows they call eyes.
Their eyes—oh yes their eyes--burn brightest when they're pushed the most, and dimmest when they see that day that he and I must part. If I had eyes, I would weep with him, my brother, as he makes his last stand on this square of life. I wish they could hear me whisper all the loving words I hold, as they make their last goodbyes. For it is I who understand so much better than any other just what they are and what they mean, and what it is they bring to you, through me.
These poles and ropes are arms for them, though not always loving, they are always open. I hold them when they can stand no more, their tired hands cling tight. Their blood has painted me, in crimson offering. I've seen them grimace through the masks and stagger, as the ruby ropes drip down. I catch them, I always catch them.
I absorb the sweat they pour in strife, to entertain, to make a life for family and children that make them cry at night. I feel each slap as backs connect, as heads and faces crash. I hear each groan, I feel each break, each bruise and exhausted moan. Always am I forever amazed, as these soldiers rise to their feet again though dazed, their battle cry raised high. I hear the vibrations through the crowd as their glory cascades and flies on a swelling, enraptured, sigh. If I had but a mouth I would smile, until ears I have not would ache, when the turnbuckle is climbed and the trophy raised skyward in a victory that means more than any gold a man can make.
Passion happens, and I record it, not a drop to ever be wasted. Those big moments for which they have waited, when the lights shine down, and seem like heavens beams have surely fated this to them as their smiles radiate, the glow of this dream they have created. I keep all those moments and share them too, and dear to me they are, it's true. Though I may be be constructed, broken, and resurrected again, I never forget. I never forget within.
I've held men not much more than children, learning to take their first steps herein. Yet also have I cradled men who are meeting their last, as their ragged nails at the fabric of this stained mat are clasped, and on their lips their last breath is weakly gasped. I feel and see it all, the loss and the gain, the joy and the pain, and I take it all in and back again. If you could wind me up and just press play, I'd show a lifetime of wounds. The black and white of times long past would flutter and flicker pictures like slide show movies from an old projector. You could see all those faces that have since became lines, all the eyes that are now place markers in time, yes--you could see as I see from this graceless vantage point of mine.
Alone now I sit in a darkened room out of sight. Those who ducked in have ducked out for the night. I wait silent under the shadow of the switched off lights for hands to break me down, and bear me away and on to the next session or fight. Once I'm joined again, and once more made whole, I will be ready to hold them again and be one with their souls. I can't wait until they're back in me moving, moving in the sweetest, most intimate places, and I will hold them always; our dance is that of lovers in everlasting embraces.