The grizzled old monk felt things weren’t right.
The monk drew Damascus sword, so wicked, so bright.
He took a sure stance and cocked an ear.
A rustle of leaves was oh so near.
Lifting his sword so it was ready to strike.
Two steps forward, arc up and swipe.
A scream rent the air, as the villian fell.
With a terrible slash, he was far from well.
The monk, a death-stab to silence what he made.
A small cloth he kept, he wiped blood from the blade.
Then began running to his deed as light started to fade.