Swordpoint
by Jonathan Quince
Wednesday, May 11, 2005 14:01:06
Her flesh is soft, but her spirit, steel; and thus is soft flesh subsumed, ’til gentle curves are hard as stone, ’til stone is soft against the awesome form of her body. Cold seems warm as heat becomes cold; sensuality becomes god-power; flames lick off smooth skin without touching, blades shatter and bullets crumble without leaving their mark.
Her eyes, all-seeing, glow golden in the dark behind the blindfold she wears always.
Erect, she stands, one giant form in perfect relief, perfectly proportioned and perfectly nude from toe to ear, but for the blindfold. And her arm extends taut, straight, straight as the blade that she holds, the sword that extends from her grasp as a unitary part of her body. That straight line runs sharp, sharp enough to slice worlds, double-edged and ever-watchful, to the point that stands ready to pierce evil’s heart and rend corrupt soul from broken body.
Thus does Lady Justice watch over the gateway; and thus does her terrible promise hold threats to descend upon those who scoff and spit at her ideal. The world may be cleansed, her stainless wrath sated only by truth of being.