Crown of the Ring

Beneath harsh lights the roaring crowd forgets its fear, He sets his stance, a thunder held in quiet bone. One glove becomes a comet, cutting through the air, And in that snap, the ring admits a crowned unknown. The canvas hums with sweat, with brass and battered pride, Old posters stain the night in sepia and in smoke. He breathes like steady drums; the world is set aside, For greatness is a vow that lives in every stroke.