The drops that fall are heavy

from aching muscles

fighting to stay steady

under the loads they bare.

 

Torn benches reveal

stories deep.

Their scars reminders

of the wars we’ve waged.

 

Darkened bars whisper of

the skin they tore

and the hands

they forged.

 

The plates beckon

to those seeking power

who’s will screams

for more challenge.

 

A war ridden tribe

fights inner demons

while movement occurs

in spite of pain.

 

To some, this arena

brings fear, even to darkness;

we see the strength that

resides in resilience.

 

Many are born, but

few claim their

mantle, and with it,

dominion over such force.

 

Here, we forge our courage

from the depths of frailty

and our power from

the ashes of weakness.

 

In this moment, the cosmos

is lifted on our shoulders

and our battle cries

echo in eternity.

 

This, is where we train,

This, is where lives are

reclaimed.

This…is our battleground.