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Zeyu Dec 2019
I.
Her blade was quenched in limestone brine
Its sable haft laced with golden thread.
Atop the palace walls, she treads lightly
In her robe woven thin as cicada's wing

II.
When I saw his children past the silken screen
again-- from atop the cedar crossbeam--perhaps
I should lightly retreat but I lingered still:
until he saw silver ribbons that tied my hair
He (I had thought) unlike those lives I severed  
can live to tomorrow (but our gaze had locked!)

III.
A swing, a flash, an unfelt wound-- she moves
with Gansui's fury, and Chunjun's spirit
And softly these shattered visages laid to
a dreamless rest upon her gracious touch.
This poem is largely inspired by the story of a female assassin, Nie Yinniang, in the Tang Dynasty short story collection Chuanqi (The Legends); Her independence and desire for freedom are unparalleled in the story. Yinniang was a truly amazing character in the fiction at the time.

Gansui and Chunjun are two legendary swords said to be owned by the King of Yue, who reigned around the late 5th century B.C.E.
Arthur Blank Sep 2019
To the humble ant,
A blade of grass is a tree,
In a vast forest.
A Haiku.
lua Sep 2019
The blade shone in the sun's rays
My breathing was stuttered and frantic
My body shivered and trembled
Shaking and quivered
I could taste the blood on my tongue
And feel the ache
The throbbing of my heart
The churning of my stomach with fear
I see the way your grip tightens with every beat of your heart
You watched me
I watched you
We both take a stance




I listen to your prayers
Prayers to the sun
You asked for guidance




I take the first swing




And I take the last.
taken from my original story
Cameron Sep 2019
It cuts into me as a knife.
Scarring the surface of my soul.

Blood rolls down the blade
Carrying whispers of uncertainties.

It stares at me as it breathes me in,
And I breathe my last.
Aman Aug 2019
It shines at the outside....
But inside it becomes dull.....
No opening.....
No chance.....
Opportunity becomes null....
Moment goes still....
The life seems over....
Nowhere left is the way....
Just the empty pride...
About to die....
But why.....
Asks the heart.....
The blade in the hand....
Seems fine....
But it's of no use....
Because the one broken....
Is not the blade.....
But our spirit...
To fight back....
And sometimes our heart.....
But the will....
Is not yet apart.......
Broken spirit, heart
Left Foot Poet Mar 2017
She, my cutter,
my body, her cutting,
with tongue and finger nail,
any handy human implement,
she sculpts me to
her eye's configuring delight

she, grabs my wrist,
and my face
by her hands embraced,
unblemished once
now becomes scarred tissued,
no guise, no lies, no bearded mask,
no disguise -
all forsaken
hidden hardened skin,
speckled red/white translucent,
she kisses with adoration her
heart designed
objet d'art

no better blade than she,
with every cut,
transformed, she becomes
my devotee,
I, her escapee,
I am her, she is me,
inseparable, my every command,
she obeys


for our love cuts both ways
Sabila Siddiqui Jul 2019
Your tone was like a blade,
that skimmed her skin.
Your words had cut deep,
stabbed her heart;
scarred her soul
and embedded itself into her memory,
playing like a loop in her head.
For your words are now ghosts that hunt her
in the darkest of times,
making her sweat smell like terror.
Chris Jul 2019
This blazing blade
Stuck in my chest
The starving flames
Licking my flesh.

The orange hue
Glowing so bright
Makes you ask who
Started this fight?

These pearl white sins
Melting away;
Charring my skin
No more to say.
Surprisingly enough, I don't really know what this is about. I was thinking of a game with the same title and I just kinda wrote this. I like it. Let me know what you think. Enjoy.
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