The air between us is taut
as a bow strung
ready to fire
given the slightest provocation.
The tension is palpable,
the friction creating static sparks,
signs of the storm approaching.
We fall into the familiar steps of the duel,
watching, waiting, hardly daring to breath,
knowing conflict is inevitable.
The first dropp of rain splatters the group,
blood has been drawn.
The clouds gather quickly,
blocking out the light;
darkening the arena.
The thunderheads clash, roaring opposing views,
the stabs of lightning become ever more frequent;
the clangs of thunder ever more deafening.
Wounds are inflicted,
cruel and deforming,
but no clear victor is decided.
The clouds recede as we withdraw
to tend to our injuries,
to repair our weapons,
and to re-strategize our plans for battle.
The fight is far from finished,
the storm stalks the horizon.
The time will come again,
when we shall test our strength of wits
in this spar of barbed tongues.
Comments about this poem (*Argument by Jane Meyer )
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