This is our wrestling mat.

It isn’t much to see.

Sort of furrowed yet flat.

The number of soles it has held has given it a soul.

 

Often I have slumbered on him.

Hard to others, gentle to me.

We beat his chest to a rhythmic hymn,

“No prisoners! No mercy! Meet me on the mat, it’s going down!”

 

Too old for the child’s games

My time has passed.

So I walk on this mat my core aflame

Time to satiate the youth’s brains until they are left aghast.

 

Worry not mat your time is far.

I will soon leave this Earth.

But don’t miss me, the world is bazaar.

Soon it will be the youth’s time. A new generation they will birth.

 

Will they look at you the same?

Will they see me in you?

Will they give you a well-deserved name?

I hope that they stay true, and do what they ought to.

 

Lights out for now my venerable friend.

I’ll mop you tomorrow.

Respite for now, this is our end.