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Staring down the enemy he reaches to his side.
Blood lust the only thing he can see in his opposition's eyes.
A war started so long ago should be nearing to an end.
Both sides have there beliefs as reasons driving them to win.
Placing a hand upon his weapons hilt he steps in to a fighting stance.
Both men so close to victory there meeting was not by chance.
The only light to be seen is that from the moon.
Both men continue to stand waiting for the others move.
Slowly both with draw there blades from there sheaths.
With out a second thought the opposing blades have come to meet.
Quickly slashing at each other neither one strikes a blow.
Both warriors move with such a rhythm like the way a river flows.
After the battle continues to wage wounds begin to appear.
Both warrior's blades are cracked, damaged beyond repair.
Discarding there weapons they withdraw another set.
This battle shall not end a draw, for it's a fight to the death.
They strike again, continuing till it seems there's nothing left.
Both men slow there pace, trying to catch there breathe.
The two are fatigued yet neither one will yield in the fight.
Both want the glory, the honour, and the pride.
Each fighting for the beliefs of there own side.
No, neither man can stop until the other man has died.
Both the samurai continue causing more wounds and more bloodshed.
Neither one willing to accept defeat until the day they are dead.
With a thrust and a twist the enemy is struck.
Unable to defend the warriors face gets cut.
The enemy unable to accept defeat even while blood soaked upon his knees.
The enemy attacks once more branding the warrior with a cross upon his cheek.
With drawing his blade from the enemy he sheaths his sword.
The warrior's victory brings his side ever closer to ending the awful war.
From here the warrior will travel seeking atonement for his sins.
Vowing never to use a sword to kill, anyone again.
This poetry is not my personal work. It was borrowed with permission from Dravenof a poetry website
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