Icarus's blog: "Hope- by any other name."

I dip my bokken into the clear water.
Dragging, writing, dancing in the current
not contemplating, not pensing
just fighting the flow as my toy blade sloths against the stream.

There's not enough weight to this blade
not enough sin in my heart.
It's too gentle. An artist's weapon.
Delicate- refined- balanced.
Bruising, not cleaving.

The even, smooth worksmanship
the artisan sanding, the thick varnish
chipped finely against hardwood floors
and claustrophobic ceilings
a meer bauble that served to only teach me the gravity of my swing

those punctuated- perfect strokes of misery.
Each escape of air a cry for help
a drowning plee unheard
each downward plunge another petalfall of sorrow.
If I were to put a blade to it... if I were to...

thrust that sadness- with the same perfect swing
into the heart of an opponent-
would I be understood?
For just one moment...
before pain twisted his face
before fear took what was left of his mind and heart?

I flip the bokken from the tips of my fingers
gently, apologetically into the clear water.
not contemplating, not pensing
calculating, dreaming of the thick binding
of a warrior's weapon in my palm.

A warrior's spirit... it must be heavy.
Heavy enough to be understood.
If only for a moment.
There is no magic.
No final boast of ki

Just the fine red mist of the fallen
and a brief understanding
an unspoken intimacy.
Like folded fingers.
Like unsheathed hearts.