A Poet Is Likened Unto A Warrior

The battle lines are drawn, the plan is set
I draw my sword for yet another skirmish,
readying myself for anything
Then like a whirling dervish,
I strike like a berserker at the first taste of blood
With a million strokes of my instrument,
the battle ends
looking across the plain, I can see for miles the little ribbons Of indigo blood scattered across the parchment countryside,
and I realize that fate has rolled the dice in my favor yet again,
That victory is at long last mine!
I know that there are other battles though
And such are the onus of the poet