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Penned

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The story is at the tips of his fingers,
He can't wait to immerse himself.
Behind his eyes, an epic battle plays out.

He sprints into the fray full-tilt and lets loose a mighty cry.
Ready to defend his honor, his eyes
Bright with fury.

With time-honed autonomous perfection,
He unsheathes his mighty blade
like a knife through butter
And readies for attack.

He knows he is in his element.
He sees his enemies charge with almost
As much fury as he,
But he knows no fear, he is confident that the
Long hours of practice will endow his attack
With an animal lethality.

One by one, he mows down the enemy.
Lunge! Parry! Stab Stab Stab!
He enters into an electric dance,
He and the sword are one.


As he watches the bright leave
The icy blue, hate-filled eyes of the enemy
Now cleaved in two,
He feels this battle is somehow different.
He feels a satisfaction that empty slaughtering
Has never given him before.
Perhaps his enemies are simply more capable.

The minutes and the days blur together.
The physical exhaustion lessens
But his mind is working at a fervor pitch.
His enemies begin to feel rougher, woodier, almost like...
A quill on parchment.

The blood he spills begins to thicken, then darken
To a stygian hue. The sword shortens in his hand.
He can now grasp it in one palm.
The speed of the motions increase
Until the battle reaches an epic climax.

The author caps his pen
And leaves the ink to dry until another day.





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