Katana

A reflected night, a sprinkling of stars, a smattering of constellations, on a deadly mirror. Black steel, as black as the night. Sharp steel, as sharp as light. A tang and a blade mounted on a wooden handle. A sword.

Catching the rays of the stars, the metal whistling in the cold night air. The cold steal cutting the cold night. The swish of a stroke mimicking the swirling of the wind. The brilliant sparkles of the sky mimicked on a silver line of light stopping at a simple hilt. Metal on wood. Light on dark. The cold metal connected to a simple carved piece of wood.

A hilt that had withstood the test of time. A handle that had seen it’s comrades decay, seen it’s wielders decline, but never a handle that had failed. This solid piece of wood that encases a metal spirit protruding out it’s end like a deadly beam of light. A handle itself encased from a skin of blue cloth crisscrossing over it’s rough surface.

The entire sword, blade, its blade, its guard, and its handle a single weapon. A deadly piece of work, it is a tool to kill. Yet the ancient handle, and well used blade signify something more, status. This is a lethal weapon, but it is also a sign of glory. The blue cloth crisscrossing its surface signifies a family, and a way of being: the well worn blade power.

A rank, a family, a name, a handle, a blade, all these are this sword, all these are the blade as it swings down its fatal path. An life taken with a whisper, and a life taken with a blade, and a life taken with rank.