Tension Waiting

The swordsman who draws his blade Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing Held back by muscles tight with glee. I am as the soldier, held in stance, The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse, And just as the swordsman stands They are statues in this moment, Statues of derision, Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within. And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce Coiled with motivation and purpose, And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge Ready to lash out and strike with direction But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce. But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent, As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box But alas, there is no victim to frighten, No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me, I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me. And here I am, pouncing at ground before me, Slicing away at the air around me Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance I write about… I write about the coil within, and the lack without And alone I wonder, Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.