an old parchment

lies in the pavement

soaked by the rain.

it holds a story

of long ago.

the ink runs

down the gutter,

rushing to join

the river of memories.

as the page drifts

and the edge points

to an unexplored street,

he brushes the tip of his pen

against the paper grain,

moves his wrist above it

like a shimmering silk scarf,

and between the fibers

a new tale dances.

This second that you chose to plant the sword of your retreat is one with you. Your execution has ripened, your breath is with the spirits, your end--- winds me back to the beginning.

The stage has been set.

While you're down with eyes shut, I, on a stance above you is gathering all of being a man for a final motion.

The perfume that clings to your kimono dances to the rhythm of the wind that hums like a last reverberation of a drum for a death march. But the silent whispers of my sword is more defeaning than what is heard.

Your fate on my faith on you.

And so the sword sings rebirth as i pull it from the sheath. Staccato to the point of surrender--- your heart; that cries of piercing. Undressing every doubt, pushing all the courage, sweating every tear, firm on the aim I keenly wait for your commence.

And you commend.

Plunge to the skin of eternity. Gush of your rain on the painting of a nightsky on the sheets. Exhale. Soar from what is human.

And i, with your completion, shatter to a thousand lights... and melt to petals of cherry blossoms and be blown to the heavens.

I raptured for you, with you, free at last.