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8 Seconds In Hell
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Cowboy Poetry Rope,
taught
and wound around his fist,
he punches the fit
into place.
Denim and leather-clad legs
wrap around
the massive form below him,
of the ride he drew tonight.
The bull,
known as 'Lucifer'.
The bull,
never before
conquered, nor controlled.
Aptly named,
he's sent more than one man,
who bargained his soul
astride his back,
into purgatory.
But Damian,
the cowboy
who sits astride him now,
fears no man...
nor animal.
His black hat
angles low over
his deadset eyes
and determination
lines his face.
With a single nod,
he sets the chute
to opening
and digs in
for the duration.
His thighs clamp hard,
as Lucifer does his best
to unseat the rider,
bucking and snorting
like a hound of Hades.
Lucifer twists,
Damian meets his direction.
Lucifer thunders,
Damian rides out
his storm.
Both bull and rider,
are unbending
in their desire.
Both relentless
in their quest.
Moments tick by
like drawn out hours,
each one punctuated
with sweat and brawn,
dust and dirt.
Lucifer,
intent on dislodging
that which is intent
on remaining,
gives one last surge.
Damian,
draws upon his deep-seeded
voracity
and calls upon
his every will to ride it out.
He feels himself struggle
to gain the upperhand,
and Lucifer,
taking note of the brief unsureness,
lunges upwards.
But tonight, is historic
and no bull-headed beast
can change what's fated,
as the sound of the bell
rings in Damian's ears.
He's done it.
Rode the bull,
no man could ride.
He's survived,
8 seconds in hell!
