Prince of Fists
A regal black Prince stood atop a college curb.
Standing majestically at 5'4 however, slightly more than I atop the stone.
He was narrating a past fight he had fought with a tall white antagonist; who was not I for me and the Prince were friends.
I was also of medium stature.
The Prince spoke of how he had been harassed for his race, for his essence.
I listened with keen ears and precision, watching him reanimate his nociceptive experience.
The climax reamed and swung the late summer's night into the early fall.
By no mal intent, the tale became alive for I and the Prince.
I saw the fist of a larger story; propelling perpendicularly towards my face.
As it's arch drew nigh my left arm had risen.
The arm of heart.
Some may call it a flinch, some enguard.
My arm formed a prickle elbow, acting as a makeshift buckler of feeling flesh to block my jaw.
Only to shield the Prince's rage from my mind in the nic of time.
The Prince showed remorse for he did not know the range of his strike, nor his pain.
He meant to only tell the tale.
Yet if his blow had landed, I would have fallen concussed.
As a martial artist of peace, my right hand reached to pat his shoulder, as if to say you are still and always have been my brother.
I then thanked my tempered body for it's reflexes.
It makes one ponder what a flinch may truly be.
Perhaps a reactionary response to danger, to spare our vital organs?
But I say maybe not entirely.
Perhaps it is the body's way of protecting itself from undue pain and its subsequent woes.
To preserve the soul inside the shell.
For higher amities that come to those who seek such elusive resolutions.
Sons and daughters that do will be coronated as heir, to rule the realm of humanity.
Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2019
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