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 thrust--
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 thrust
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.