The Warrior's Rainbow Road

Most Martial Arts are coded by colored belts,

as a child and growing up, my world was ruled by colored stripes round adult waists.

By sweat, brash voices and commands.

By ruffled hair and standing by,

sleeping head nodding in dark, car journeys home.

Every colour had a meaning.

Arrows on the warrior's path,

open to many but trod by few.

At least right to the end, across each single colour.

A lonely path for a girl stood watching her feet,

beneath a child's, chunky fringe.

Every belt had a colour, but the meaning was clear,

Whether Judo, Jiu Jitsu or Kickboxing,

and most arts in between,

a pattern arises.

Colors are present in different forms at every stage of the journey, yellow in one art, blue in another, purple where I stand for now.

But all start from white and end in black.

You start a blank slate with no color at all.

Years pass by, you might become tall or starting later only more wise,

from colour to colour,

You know in the end, the colours will merge,

to the highest level of midnight black.

The part of your dreams you don't remember

but wake up knowing you want.

Even then you know the color will change,

A belt worn by years of sweat, frustration and washing cycles,

Spinning round and round as you do on the mats.

As your body enacts the techniques of your spirit

given life by your breath.

Held together by your belt,

a singular stripe of color that speaks volumes.

Speaks of years spent trying, falling, flailing, pulsing with pain,

then getting up and repeating this cycle once again.

Your belt lies next to you now as an adult, speaking of your years spent training

The colour fades, but that only adds to it's beauty.

One day when discarded, you'll hold it fondly and remember who you were, when you wore it.