SPIKE

Rain bleeds
from
the sky.

It soaks the
lining of
Spike's
leather duster.

It filters
into the iris
of his eyes;
biting like
ardent fire.

Though the
rain obstructs
his vision
it does not
prevent
him from
separating
demon heads
from their
shoulders.

The intoxication
of the art of
battle
races
through
his being.

He slices,
dices,
and
decapitates
with
skill.

It
is poetry in motion.
Battle is the greatest
dance ever
invented.

When hedoes this
dance

the pain of
loss,
heartbreak,
and guilt
somehow
eases.

Still the pain cannot be forgotten.

In between
attackers
his mind

replays the same…