He felt like he was on top of his game,
his courage and effort were not to blame,
but on the day he just was not the same.
His physical sores trivial compared to his pride's pain.
Upon entering the ring the bright lights revealed
a deathly pale that almost had it sealed.
His opponent came with deadly weapons to wield
whereas he came with a broken spirit and a broken shield.
Those who knew him knew that something was amiss,
his guard slackened, tiredly swinging his fists.
The onslaught continued to persist,
he could almost taste defeat's dark kiss.
He persevered in spite of the hurt,
yet his dazed head was not quite alert.
His legs locked, tired and shocked, deeming him inert;
his comeback attempt was valiant but curt.
Why he was off, he couldn't understand,
for his opponents would usually land
on the canvas, as alone he would stand;
yet today, his opponent raised his hand.
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