The Seven Layers

Wind in my Sails

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A lone samurai with an olive green shemagh guarding his lungs from the dagger like rocks; so small they crunch in between his teeth. The thick cloth crowned by a leather agal twisted and rotted by the sun's sour heat. This burden a custom passed on from legends on in. A journey young men were encouraged to win, energy thrived and pushed from sin. A battle amongst men and thee occasionally women . The sound as electricity flows off of the blades. The sting of bees you will feel in your veins. It, as everything else in this world, is the everlasting pain. The curse of the demons rank. Not to mention the hood bass of hip hop genesis. The tale of the circle of life and the truth behind sins and licks .The greed that leads to the quickness of fixed hits. Over the not so easily obtained goal of eternal happiness. The irony of it all. A demon in hell, cursed for eternity to battle every waking moment in hopes to one day make it back up from the 7 layers of doom to the pearly gates. The irony of murdering your way back to god. Slashing through the ribs of a man with a similar mind set but slower hands. The prayer of your opponent to have slower hands.

He rarely spoke. He just dragged his blade along the hot sand, the pull of the earth perfected his balance. And that is how he was. Forever in preparation, conventional or not. A man of few words but spoke in the pulsation of his opponent's blood. A man with death riddled in the ash of his blunt. His name was said to be Elisar the Savage. Elisar is the name given to the oldest of old lost souls. Elisar has battled since the age of the new lord. Since 7 years old he has tasted the blood of the bold or ignorant. Those who saw his little body and heard the voice of the devil linger in their ears whispering to them of the lustful urge to attack the weak. But oh how Elisar's blade would conquer their souls and glow at the end of its bead. The count of souls resting in the creases of his eye lids. So the longer he survived the colder his face became. The bags under his eyes holding his pain brought fame . The face a the sleepy demon. All through the land Elisar was known for his eyes . The dead space of pupils. The absence of love echoed in the pitch black. The nothingness of the corpse he used to fight for his soul back . The curse of the demons rank.

Years turned to decades of walking through the endless sand storms. Elisars blade needed sharpening so he sat on the floor of the earth, cupped his hand into the sand and squeezed it in his palm so tightly the sand formed into a compressed block . He slowly sharpened his blade while meditating listening to the sweet sound of an enemy's soft steps pitter pattering in attempts to slay him while he is indisposed. With a swift flick of the wrist he carved his initials into the chest cavity of a man with wild eyes and a bloody torso . He slid the body off of his blade and continued to sharpen her. To think this entire time he was being followed by trails of thousands of men looking to challenge him. To rest is the welcoming of the kiss of death. The never ending journey in the most literal sense.

Elisar stands and wipes the blood off of his blade on the forehead of dead and forgotten. The long voyage through the sand storm continues for 12 more days without even a quiver from the hollowing and distant taunting by the surrounding forces of enemies. The desperate attempts at distraction only furthered the great samurai. For he knew the destination was approaching . The storms grew hectic as the days grew longer. Elisar knew today was the last day of sand storm voyage when the day refused to end. Forty eight hours had passed With the red sun beaming directly on his skin from the middle of the sky. In the center of it all laid a slot in the middle of the desert. Elisar took the sword off of his back and thrusted it into the slot and twisted it like a key that opened the ground into a walking path downwards. Elisar struggled to release the blade from the tight confines of the slot. As he struggled he soon became surrounded by the enemies that had once taunted him in the distance . Their scarves different patterns and clothing from different cultures but all had the same lifeless fait soon to be hand delivered. Elisar released his grip on the sword and bowed to the crowd of men. He reached into his shirt and pulled out an ankh, kissed it and returned it inside . His hands extended low and he slowly emerged into a fighting stance. His eyes closed. He listened to the steps of the first enemy approaching . A short anxious boy with white powder dripping from his nose. A thumb to the pressure point in his neck had him limp and discarded to the side before he could even release his breathe. Respectfully one by one each enemy stated their name before battle and was knocked down by the samurai. Some brought blades while others brought guns. Nonetheless one by one the fallen stacked up a body count so high that the samurais bagged eyes grew one thousandth of an inch . Through the viewing of the up most ridiculous bifocals you could see the tallies of killings on the samurais cheeks .

After days and nights of the one by one killing of each trained assassin the blade became looser and looser. Within each fight the samurai slowly worked the ground so that the slot had room to expand. By the 4th night the blade was released and sat firmly in the hands of its creator. The last of the enemies approached with two swords in hand . He swung them slowly and copied every move the samurai made with twice the motion like a two headed snake. Elisar took a deep breath and watched as the reflection of the sun off his blade blinded the final assassin leaving an open opportunity to thrust the steel sword through his heart in an incursive fashion only he could obtain...

Wind in my sails. Necessary for moving forward yet a conflict when forward is behind you. Perspective.