In a garden,
a single orchid grows.
It gets wet when it rains,
and moves when the wind blows.

Its petals are large,
and their color fair.
It has a sweet aroma,
that scents the air.

A fragile life,
that knows no fear.
Of the glinting metal,
growing near.

A wielded sword,
cutting the air.
A razor edge,
with few lives to spare.

With every move,
it whispers death.
And the orchid waits,
with calm breath.

Upon a petal,
of milky white.
Inches of metal,
gently alight.

The orchid feels the steel,
slide across its skin.
Unscathed at all,
but touched within.

Master of sword,
unable to harm.
The symbol of,
who kept him warm.

A love he lost,
to another's blade.
This remembrance,
of a promise made.

He kisses a petal,
and closes his eyes.
He smells the sweet breath,
as the orchid sighs.

Forever alive,
though no longer living.
In his memory,
his love reliving.

From the fair orchid,
no fear is shown.
Only a love,
for him that is known.

A spirit finding comfort,
in the touch of his blade.
His caress and his kiss,
and a promise made.