A Couple of Crazy Old Bats
By S. F. Brooke
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The Quill and the Katana
1.
The quill is forgotten
As my katana slides against the sharpening stone,
The wind breathes my past into the metal.
Etching my adventures into the side of the katana
Its reflective surface hums with excitement.
The paper is left behind
As I craft the hilt with evergreen,
The silk is kind to my newly calloused hands.
I draw the sword from its smooth scabbard,
It’s light as a feather.
The words cry out for recognition
While I use my katana to cut through confrontation,
Through the constraints of fear and hopelessness,
I bound through the butterflies of fate.
Careful not to clip their wings.
The ink begs
As the sun’s reflection on my sword dims,
replaced with those of the stars,
I place the katana on its pedestal,
With battered hands, I pick up my true instrument.
The quill is patient
And untethered at last
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