I ache for a release.
My greed for the rushing, choking, vomit-inducing fear of the mortality-ender seizes me.
Wild, wanton, destruction, the feel of rushing iron, shrieking armor and pain.
Screaming steel dominated by seething, white-knuckled, uncontrollable rage, an indomitable desire for horrible, victory.
The stink, the rot, the stench of spirits and tobacco, overpowered by the pounding metal limbs of the beast, the waft of wax that boils like blood.
The wail of my victory, the singing cries of a crowd, each face I long to twist into my rage for loss.
Where is my tourney now?
I wished I had wrote this
But it was the man in the ring
And he is now dead.