// THE WARRIOR WITH INKS AND SWORDS //
Blue blossoms strike her heart hard, as she breathes out snowflakes, through voids of thin air, watches a pair of blue eyes and strong claws pounding onto her bosom with piercing gaze, she lifts sword to strike the beast hard.
One more day of mythical mischief leads her to downfall from the last piece of land. As she trips and falls off, cold blood stains frozen lakes, a pink lotus hiding in the fog, the string between her and the beast hold her midair.
Her sword breaks the string, again she begins to fall, but the last words from between the air shoots fear through her spine, halcyon bursts in every synapse along her nerves, clots of ink ready to surge into her smooth skin.
Final draft of her last poem, battlefield covered with petals of her poetry, as her sword falls onto frozen ground with loud clink.
/ metaphors greet dead, as she dances lively again in the womb of poetry, her sword and her quill, both held her in peace. /