A thrust, when it lands just right, feels like a stanza that snaps into place, the blade singing the same rhythm I use when I rhyme. The blade’s pulse mirrors the beat of a poem, the weight and timing echoing the cadence of a line. When a blade’s swing is clean, it’s a line of verse in motion, and when it falters, it’s a broken rhyme that reminds me why I sharpen both my sword and my pen.

I’ll keep the cadence true, the blade singing like a stanza, and the mind as sharp as the edge of my sword. When the rhythm is steady, every strike will echo a verse that even the wind can read.