The Sacred Sword

Voices drift into my square room. The keyboard click-clacks beneath my fingers.

A warrior waits for battle. His horse snorts and stomps the ground, restless as the wind that whispers in the tall, yellow grass.

He hears the voices of the enemy, and is still. The horse beneath him moves like the ocean, it’s eyes wild. It tosses its head, yellow mane flaring.

A poet raises his pen. It’s an old quill pen, of course. A drop of black ink coalesces on its nib, and falls.

A boy looks up from his desk and sees something fresh. A tree outside his window perhaps, or the rain that glistens like a mirror on the rough black asphalt.

If I break, it will be like that: my mind cracking sharply like a whip in cool, wet morning air.

The warrior stands with one hand in his pocket and looks up at a streetlamp, all alone in the dark. A warm breeze rushes through his back, filling his heart like a glass of wine. It flows out from his fingertips, coursing through his arm and into the blade he holds.

—A blade of grass, sharper in his hand than a katana. More powerful than an executioner’s ax. It cuts the night in two.

The past crumbles into dust; the future collapses like a sand-castle under the tide.

The warrior poet dwells in the gap that remains. The wind passes him by.

I walk outside and feel the air for the first time. The trees are dark against the turquoise sky, like drops of ink fallen accidentally on paper. Not placed there purposefully, but perfect.

The air is brisk and refreshing.

These useless moments are the most important.

I must remember that.

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