The air is still, the page is white,
A blank, before the wordy fight.
My pen, a sword, feels cool and sharp,
Ready now to leave its mark.

I parry first with gentle rhyme,
A simple phrase, to buy some time.

I then throw a verse like a thrust, a clever parry,
Defending thoughts, so light, so airy.

Now the page is scarred with ink's dark trace,
Each line a move, a lost embrace.

A story told, a reason why,
Beneath the sun of truth and sky.

No armor worn, but heart laid bare,
A fragile soul beyond compare.

The fight goes on, with rhyme and speed,
Planting seeds of hope and deed.
Until at last, the words take hold,
A different story to be told.

I gather strength, one final plea,
A truth so stark, for all to see.

The fight is done, the page is still,
My word-sword rests, its duty filled.
And in the calm, a lesson learned,
Words, powerful weapons, truly earned.