The Fight

Metal glinting. Red hot
On an open fire.
Steaming, falling into flame.
Shaped. Cooled. Formed.

A hand holds its smooth hilt.
It swings in an arc,
Slicing the air.
Bend. Twist. Swivel.

You hold an invisible sword,
Stabbing gently with your words.
You pray that you are heard.
Loudly. Strongly. Clearly.

You hold your fears behind you.
This is no time to be afraid.
Stepping forward, towards the line.
Breathe. Think. Run.

Chasing ever forward. You wish
You could remember what to do.
What to say. Swift silence falls.
You step. Step. Step.

I see your weakness, under your steel.
Your fear. Your cowardess.
You dream of sharp words.
They are blunt. Flat. Soft.

You pretend to be proud.
Perfectly formed. Steely clear.
Pounding ground. Beating blood.
Now you.