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Devon Leonel Dec 2012
Blademasters are we:
Circling each other, wary.
Two masters of our craft,
Skilled not in the art of cut and slash
But rather the parry and ******--
Leaving delicate but deadly wounds
Wherever we strike.
Circling closer,
Weapons sheathed, but ever wary.
From their homes at our hips
Our blades have sprung, just once,
And in the brief but furious interchange
Each dealt a wicked wound
Before returning to rest.
And yet, despite the pain,
Still we circle closer--
Weapons sheathed, but ever wary.
The circle closes until
Hands connect,
Feet move as one:
A graceful dance begins.
At such close range, any ******
Heralds grim death,
But we acknowledge danger--
Acknowledge, and disregard.
Blades silent at our sides,
Taking step after delicate step.
Weapons sheathed,
And slowly trusting.
Devon Leonel Dec 2012
Your touch is fire.
Trails of heat that mark
Each place where skin brushed skin.
Sinking, spreading into a rich, warm glow.

Your touch is ice.
Frosty tendrils entwining
The delicate nervous network they find.
Cool shivers radiating from every fiber.

Your touch is lightning.
A buildup of charge
As distance closes.
On contact, a surge, a tingling rush.

Fire, ice, lightning:
Touched by three,
And by three bound;
And all three bound within a single touch.

— The End —