Knowledge is double-edged; in its authority, it plays a game with flesh.
Noble swordplay masters do not mince words with sheaths set aside for battle.
Objectives to swordplay are manifold as love, but not to die is prime.
Wicked is the candle that flickers with its tongue a luminescent flame.
Lightning-fast, the master strikes an opponent dead on the field of battle.
Enter the house of death, the hostel of the damned, victims of the light sword.
Decisive and certain, the grandmaster plays games with lesser opponents.
God grants the gifts of strength and fortitude to few of virtuous privilege.
Exit the house of death, where knowledge is fruitless as serpentine wisdom.
Might walks the double-edged banter of grandmasters unscathed by wicked tongues.
Ignorance of the sword is to accept the law of mere consequences.
God grant me the wisdom to avoid the master on the field of battle.
Hubris offers swift death by slashing through mere flesh for a thirst for blood grows.
Tastes differ by and large, the vast majority drowns the minority.
Pity bids us adieu while masters are at play; compassion hides her face.
Insistence on winning no matter the result abandons all fair play.
Tomorrow, like today, will differ in moments, but mind remains the same.
Yesterday, I woke up to find a grandmaster on the field of battle.
Win the war with wicked flames, whisper sweet nothings in ears burning with ice.
Ice melts the candle wax cool fire blue at both ends, who plays with swords of ice.
Neutral lines of assault disengage tacticians in double-edged swordplay.
And the essence of truth discovered in knowledge, knowing nothing is best.
Nothing more innocent than a know-nothing fool facing a grandmaster.
Deliberate killing of a fool in swordplay, akin to swatting flies.
Pity less fortunate creatures of misfortune lacking in compassion.
Independence of mind takes years of discipline, the fool hasn't the time.
Time is no illusion but for the ignorant who make up their own rules.
Yesterday, I arrived late for the umpteenth time for work, I'm but a fool.
Grace guides our gratitude as a daimonion mentors Tēlemakhos.
Rigorous discipline, a specialized knowledge, not for inferiors.
Art argues against truth, against knowledge, wisdom creating illusions.
Creation opens doors to the swordplay of words, the grandmasters listen.
Enlist the grandmasters in a contest of wills; feed them their daily swill.
Obtain for the boatswain what was there to retain interaction with swine.
But can the boatswain beat grandmasters at their game on the field of battle?
Tricky to say how love attracts violent games of both mind and swordplay.
Answers to the question are neither yes nor no but with a little help.
Interest in a sword fight on a ship with sailors as seen in a movie
Not only gains in appeal from total strangers but from grandmasters themselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment