and i've found myself with a dream of a sword,
i'm not quite sure why that is, but there is
something so compelling, it seems, to me
about the grace of thin steel elegantly wielded.

is it carnage i seek? and death?
or do i merely appreciate the grace
 that is
  the violence of beauty
   ?

perhaps a latent anger in me for pains afresh
makes me dream so vividly
of wielding gleaming scimitar
unsheathing from scabbard
no sexual metaphor desired
only smooth graceful arcs as i swing left and right

and i am tempted to say
it is not true violence
for i have not dreamt of blood
only the sword,
 naught else,
  excepting perhaps a candle or two to slice in twain.

and the sword, the sword,
it makes me want to dance
the very moment i feel hilt in hand
how nimbly it swings!

sword dancing,
 extant, not invented
  but necessitated by the very holding of it

dance, sword, come to me,
let me replace faillible flesh with cool cold blade
and dance with you anew.