Samurai 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.

Damon Wyle

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