The mighty she-warrior sheathed in tight
and flowing dragonsilk, stood
jutting out like a rock
outcropping,
to overlook
nothing: the hugely-shifting
mountainous drifts of colored glass
sand,
so softly bright,
all that remained of the storied
land
of bottles,
long since upended,
their contents drained, and sheathed
her sword. A
scimitar, technically
surpassed in excellence
by no known blade, forged
in the heart of a lesser star
of a now-obscure reality
show, who had turned
blacksmith after all
his legendary royalty
checks dried up, and only
surrendered the sword
to her,
after much sly banter.
It seemed like ages ago
Now
Her sheaths
both of leather and dragonsilk
were stained by the blood
of her enemies' friends
it's the closest she's ever come
to revenge.
Looking out and down, dully
across the dunes, duly-glittering
as the moon slid up, and off of them like dew
She knows about
what she always knew:
She has not yet gone too far,
and she has yet
much too far
to go.
Before she's through
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