I sleep with a dulled sword under my pillow
The soft raspings that it once made
While sharpened before battle
Whisper to me in the night
Call to be brought forth again
Call for blood
For the heads of my deep-set distraction: depression, despondence, dejection, diluted diffusion, demanding disillusion, diatribe-filled dissident distinction… damn, perhaps just a dream:
Like samurai of old I leap from utter mountainlakestillness in my bed, from flat to flightful feet in a moment of sweeping splendid smoothness where blankets part like the pelican wings at fluttery takeoff and blade emerges from feathered sheath with a steel hiss as air parts like waves from prow. Snickersnack high excaliber whipcrack of sword through air stale as spent sorries. My hands like light leaves flash the night without worry, caring only for cracks in the oxygen current where these parries and thrusts avert cracking functional and whole molecules and cause such turbulence as to rearrange the whole swirling ambiance, shake up all deep-set situation.
