Necromancer: The Samurai's Life and Death, a Poem

Rain drops fall in each place as decided by fate, but not what flows

from the sharp edge of this blade in hand. That was chance and pure

impulse from the shadow voices. Crimson dripping from the tip of the katana,

blood splattered across the Japanese shoji doors, a Jackson Pollock painting glowing

in the darkness. The painted bodies, abstract and separated after the performance,

cannot give applause. Those eyes, dragon eyes, reveal the wild beast that lies deep;

no eye patch can hide the evil inside. Brotherly affection turns into a lover’s

obsession and jealous rage. Protection is no longer needed, but without isolation

all those involved will die. The sparrow eats the ladybug for lunch mid-flight.

The cage around my heart has no key, therefore, shall wither for all eternity.

Locked away, the only relief is the picturesque view of the cherry blossoms.

Spring arrives as a warm breeze blows through the cracked window;

It whispers of the need to dance wanting to create happiness and rejoice in

all forms of ki. Blossoms are prancing in the air next to a tiny Sumxu or

Bombay scratching earth. She digs in a circle attentive and leery of her surroundings.

Skid marks, barely visible now after the Hayabusa race, don’t show the

crash. Our consciousnesses spark a flame that draws all the lost creatures, shows all

their weaknesses, and allows them to decide: wield the power or burn in desire.