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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Thriller/Suspense · #1842518
With swords drawn, one must die.
Facing the gauntlet
Of a sharpened edge.
Meeting the challenge
Thrown at my feet.

There I must face
A man of renown.
Not for his manner,
But his skilled sword.

We met at dawn
On a chilled spring day.
He, with a smile,
I, not dismayed.

We took our stance
And touched swords.
The duel had started,
As he thrust at me.

It was but a short time,
Since I saw his grave.
There he's buried,
On a chilled spring day.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1842518