Tea Steams the Mirror

Tea steams the mirror
Outside cherry blossoms fall,
Tea's taste dissipates.

The warrior sets down his teacup, forgetting the rest of the world. He sheds his old skin, sheds his old life, changes without perceptible proof. He yells, the teacup shakes in place for an eternity or more. Out of the shadows step figures that no one else sees, but the warrior knows them. He is convinced of their truth. He must defeat these manifestations of darkness; these horrifyingly beautiful monsters that seem to melt from the walls, rise in the steam, rain on the windows. He must defeat them or die trying.

The warrior steps forth from the shadows clad in new armor that is lighter than air yet stronger than rock. An impish shadow clings to his own, ready to sink its green teeth into his own shadow's neck. The warrior turns back, his eyes are ablaze. His shadow remains in its place. A harsh, grating song plays itself on his sword. A glint of light brightens the room. His shadow cowers in the corner; the imp laughs an impish laugh. The warrior remains in the calm light of night. A soft breeze caresses his back.

Fancy footwork is married to combat techniques. His hands move with the speed of a god's. The sword follows its own trail of shadows and sweat, striking with vertical slash over the impish demon-spawn. The warrior returns to his starting point now, sheathing his sword. He looks out the window. Pretty cherry blossoms float in the wind. Aromas of past love and past hate mingle, creating new demons for the warrior to fight.

He jumps up and kicks, three, four, five times before landing again. He strikes at the wind, his long hair comes undone. A jumbly mess blocks his eyesight, the salty pain stings his eyes. He looks out the window, it has begun raining, more demons descend. The warrior is tired, he's now breathing hard. His tea has grown cold but the steam from his fights clouds the mirror with pain. He looks beyond the dark fog, wipes away sweat from his brow. He snarls at the one staring back. He's tired but ready to start fighting again. And again. And again. The fight lasts a lifetime and he stares straight in the eyes of the worst man he's faced. And he smiles, because he has kept him at bay. No longer does this man control him but the warrior controls himself.

The warrior lifts up his sword, summoning the powers of heaven to earth. He strikes hard, rippling the floor. He is transported, he is transformed. He cuts the heavy evil in the air around him, he ends the fight. The demons are spent, his worry is gone. For now. He kneels on the floor, eyes toward the cherry tree and he breathes. He breathes in the good, he breathes in the bad. He keeps it inside, tries to decide. He absorbs the truth, he embodies the good, and with one final yell, the bad he expels makes the room tremble and rings all the bells.