Koto music soft on evening air Kami-like,
drifts over thirsty moonscape of jagged garden shadows.
A thousand knives of blunted edge
strike the spine with each haunting chord.
A musical Kaishaku-nin stands just beyond side-sight,
the shadow growing with each sakazuki raised,
poised to strike. Yamato-kami hovers,
a wraith riding each chilling note,
Hatamoto of forgotten ages
sitting silently in the darkened
edges of the room. Waiting. Waiting.
Beyond the evening’s pale, nighttime America
rides the streets of careless ignorance.
What did Mishima say of a 'green snake’ strangling the country?
Beyond this room the snake coils even now.
Restless. Cold, unfed to the point of mortal danger.
Kampai, but watch where your geta fall, my friend.