My bloody eyes stare at your sweating shadow. I feel your fists turn my face into a Picasso painting. I stand waiting for you to tire, so I can deliver my blow to your ribs and push the air out your lungs. You didn't see that coming, launching my fist to your pretty cheek, making your knees feel weak. I bet you never knew that an old man like me could stand while your soft hands deep massage my body into nothingness. Child, you thought you were wild, But I am the master waiting patiently, while you do your best to prove yourself when I've already proven everything. You scream into the air, falling face first to the ground and the last sound I heard was your whimpering. The last image you saw was my Picasso face smiling.