In combat there is pleasure:
thralls of death, however small.
We oppose with pumping blood,
recognize the secrets, the lies
we tell ourselves when no longer alone.
Moments engorged in confrontation,
this fatal embrace, swords clashing.
The fight is who we are, you and I.
Better proximity than distance,
even if shadows show between.
We are not accustomed to the sun.
No, such engagement is too much
for some. Final calls go unheard
and we die by our own swords alone.
4/7/10
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