A/N: Miroku considers his fate.
Fisted
At days' end my hand grows tired, bearing the burdens of heroism.
For no matter the strength of my grip,
I cannot protect against myself
without a scrap of cloth and its sheathing spell of will.
Visions of all not yet lost –
promises that may yet be fulfilled –
Hope –
keeps me fisted against the darkness growing inside.
When duty ends and indigo rolls across the sky
'what will be' whispers its inevitability.
Quiet silver light blends into the
shadow of my open palm
obscuring the fabric of my shield,
revealing it as a fragile veil, easily torn.
Weariness –
pulls at me to lift the edge, to follow my soul's way home.
It would be like flying everywhere at once,
becoming everything and nothing,
a billion things and one with all.
A small rip or a large wrinkle
would open me to my darkness, and
in the wind and the rush I would soar.
Freedom –
coaxes me to let go of myself, releasing the weight and worry to eternity.
Moonlight's glimmer invades my eye,
blinking me open to the curve of a woman, her skin calling my hand to touch her.
The loamy wet smells of the night –
the essence of wine still on my tongue –
the deep rumbling sound of a friends' whispered 'good night.'
Life –
grounds me in rich contradiction,
renewing for me the joys that keep my fist closed against the night.