Karate and fragment

In the dojo's quiet embrace,  
the world fades to whispers;  
a flickering candle, a breath—  
fragments of memory dance in the air.  

Each kata carved from time,  
etched into weary limbs and fading resolve.  
Jabs like heartbeat thuds,   
punctuating stories half-told—   
of triumphs smudged by doubt.

The ground beneath worn-out soles tells tales:  
A younger self spinning with certainty,  
each roundhouse kick chasing shadows away;    
the vibrant spirit echoing through starlit nights—  
  
At dawn’s edge we were warriors but now?    
Shattered pieces glint under harsh fluorescent lights—     
like porcelain left unglued on the mat;    
once strong forms reduced to echoes, glass shards scattered.    

In every stance lies an elegy—to honor what was:    
That striking fervor softened into reverence,      
when each bow sinks deeper than ritual lessons.   
We salute both winner and beaten—a shared humility.    

Here lies a tribute not just to strength—but fragility too;   
how resilience crumbles under its own weight—   
we break and mend like ancient oaths forgotten.
Dojo walls breathe history—the scent of sweat mixed with dreams lost.

Yet still I rise—for all these fragments gather light,    
paired fists that once soared fragrant wings against wind;
each scar speaks softly of battles faced alone—
in silence resides courage… echoing our own solitude.

This is my farewell: a soft landing on hallowed ground,
where karate once held promise in focused breaths;
across this canvas strewn with remnants,
I see us standing whole yet fragmented—
and together—we dissolve into dusk.