Vergil, Alone

Jordan E. Franklin

November 30, 2020

All I have is time—

 

When someone else is red, it means I live to bow another day and I

welcome how calluses glide their cruel feet across my palms. This

sword of mine is quicker than any ballet—I carve my name into

any body that asks for a dance, my steps my signature same as the

blue tap dance of my coat.

 

My blood enters a new tempo—

 

It sings for me to reenter familiar steps. It calls my right hand

home under my katana’s guard and for my knees to bend as I wait

for the rhythm. It is a pity most never see the end of this dance.

Before the music fades, my blade returns to its sheath. I am not one

to waste a song or beat.