They look at me like some kind
of purple flower that might be
but I am the sound of a sword
being unsheathed in a quiet library,
the echo of metal off countless pages.
They seem to be waiting to see
if I will unfurl, trap, blossom;
they are wary watchers, unable
to look away from a floral accident
but I am the delicate dance
of balancing a Baladay blade
on top of purple hair:
the feeling of steel waves,
of teetering, of gravity pulling
on a heavy hilt.