A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Poetry in motion begins with the inhale, and you 
assume the classic position. I always
struggle with self-control, but you remind me
that sometimes we show our strength in our restraint.
I see: your enemy surprised — already you subvert
their expectations. But then, you enter the fray
and it seems to me that your strength shreds theirs. 
The crack of thunder, like a whip, cleaves silence
and their self-belief. Then the classic twist:
feint within a feint and they defeat themselves. 
The eye of the storm — again you show your wisdom
in silence and stillness. Woe to the enemy who mistakes
this for weakness, or worse, for surrender.  And then,
like molten glass is blown and shaped, you flow.
What moved not now moves with grace. 
They hush, their rhythm paused. Waiting
is an active choice, as intentional as any strike. 
See now the second feint - there’s an artistry
in the way you mirror their steps more purely 
than the original, a comfortable arrogance
in the precision of your technique.  It is inoffensive,
because it is true.  You last until the last — unbreakable.