In the height of battle a samurai should be able to compose a poem.
Mindfulness. Focused observation. Words forming images, forming a new vision.
I am no samurai. I am no warrior.
Strong storms have a way of making even gray days seem nice.
As the water puddles have collected and the birds begin to come out.
Speak out. I am here.
The sun should come out again soon.
My stomach is not strong enough, now.
It’s only nerves they say but I don’t want to feel this way.
I want to be that samurai. I want to write through the war.
Know what each drop of blood was spilled for.
As the rain drops fall.
Bombs bursting and all.