She is a fighter, a staunch warrior
that “sneaked” into our peaceful camp.

Sword drawn and shield up
as always, to cover her own
mask(ed) malicious feelings.

She despises her jagged truths;
drooling with the blood of men.
It lay buried . . . somewhere
in the caverns of her mind.

Accuracy had become impossible, reach.

She tried so hard at times
to palm her lost truth.
It was too tough though.
Within her battle scarred
heart and hands.

This back-stabber from my past
cried, “let me in, let me in!”
I have been there and done that.
I used to invite her in,
. . . never again.

Facing her now
and toe to toe;
she will not win.
No, not this time.

As we draw our swords, I notice
that her’s is made of the finest steel;
sharper than most that I have seen.

Mine is made of love,
and sharper still.

She is not sure what slashed
her. The truth hurts as her
own blood begins to spill.

Composing herself and peering
. . . through those salty tears.
She checked herself for crimson
stains. There was none to be found.

Looking around . . .
she could not find
this Warrior of Love.

She asked:

“Who was that masked Lady;
a ghost from my past . . .
or was this just a dream?”

She was a fighter, a staunch warrior
that “sneaked” into our peaceful camp,
never realizing . . . the power that I have
or what belongs to me.

Poem © Janet Caldwell ~ June 13, 2012
Dedicated to those who have taught me well.

Pic: Google Images ~ No Copyright infringement intended

Video: YT Pat Benatar/Hit Me with your Best Shot
No Copyright infringement intended.