“Un, deux trois, aller!” the referee calls.
My legs move forward. Quickly. Methodically. Gracefully -- almost
Like a ballerina striding across the stage
My stage, however, is not a dance floor
It is metal. Durable. And incredibly scratched from the aftermath of vicious attacks.
It is a canvas torn with the points of paintbrushes that have come before. It is --
The mighty fencing piste
Fencing is an art --
The point of my sword, a paintbrush, gliding smoothly
In hopes of getting a point, to feel --
The rush, the thrill, the excitement, the joy
To feel the tidal wave wash over me
As a painter is free, their art a mirror of themselves, so too am I -- my mind, my emotions,
My white jacket and pants is not simply white, but splattered --
With bursts of colour, memories, defeats and victories
I am one with this art. It is me, and I, it.
Now to move on to the next masterpiece...