Samurai Poem by Damon Wyle

Crushed veins of DeSoto purple
folded into a petaled blade.
Feet spread in a stance of resistance,
crouching in the dirt
poised.
Flagrant burst of saffron and peach robes
fluttering loosely upon its' wiry frame.
Patiently cutting underneath the tide
of blades that surround.
A standing sycamore thrashing with the wind -
flashing, white limbs that never give ground.
A million scales of armor shiver
with every blow it takes.
The sharp glistening impact of hard cold water
splits open the fleshy ground.
Jagged flowing gashes to the bone,
without sensation.
A delicate samurai blooms in the silk
of a California poppy.
So perfect is existence
It can not even know the thought of death.