The sea, peaceful. Quiet.
Beneath, thrashing
an undertow unseen.
Dragging victims to
the depths.

There is me, silent.
Just a man. Humanity
is my shell
I am a wolf in
sheep's clothing.
A caged bird, with
a violent tune.

None are safe in
this world from,
true nature. Be it
the storms that crash
against us. Or the
Tempest raging within.

Inhale, the thick smell
of cinders and ash.
Ignites memories of this place.
The warmth, whispers words
long forgotten.
My feet leave impressions in the earth,
A stamp in time.

I remember when we lived here,
before ashes to ashes,
and before the sun went down,
leaving your eyes shining golden in the dark.
I will never forget the irises in your eyes,
burning as I remember you,
you smolder deeper into me than you know.

Your ghost resonates
in the embers, I sit.
Laying back, the passionate
flame left inside of me,
dances until the sun begins
to paint the sky with,
the majestic hues that
led us here. Suffocated now.
Even fires need to breathe.

I'm blue with a sadness
That burns hot and slowly.
You used to tickle me like tulip
Petals, your lips on my shoulder,
I won't forget you.
I wrestle with an ivy growing invasive
Over my heart.
I'm all of the things we lost and
Never had.

Peeling away the foliage,
I simmer down, let my fire
fade away. I brush away
times erosion, where
my fingertips burn as the
trace the name, that fueled
the light I cherished so dear,
all those years ago.

I'm swollen with a grief,
That grows from the mere fact
That you're just a ghost,
And that I'm growing out of
Rotten soil.

Blooming with malicious thoughts
crawling in the back of my mind.
Slithering down my spine, too cold
for the embers, the smoldering ash,
or charred remains which once burned
white hot in my heart to warm.

Two miles from town, I meet an old woodcutter
and we travel the road lined with huge pines.
The smell of wild plum blossoms
drifts across the valley.
My walking stick has brought us home.
In the ancient pond – huge, contented fish.
Long sunbeams penetrate the deep woods.
And in the house – a long bed
all covered with poetry books.
I loosen my belt and robes,
copy phrase after phrase for my poems.
At twilight, I walk to the east wing –
spring quail startle into the air.

Tramping for miles I come upon a farm house
as the great ball of sun sets in the forest.
Sparrows gather near a bamboo thicket,
flutter about in the closing dark.
From across a field comes a farmer
who calls a greeting from afar.
He tells his wife to strain their cloudy wine
and treats me to his garden's feast.
Sitting across table we drink each other's health
our talk rising to the heavens.
Both of us are so tipsy and happy
we forget the rules of this world.

Too confused to ever earn a living
I've learned to let things have their way.
With only three handfuls of rice in my bag
and a few branches by my fireside
I pursue neither right or wrong
and forget worldly fortune and fame.
This damp night under a grassy roof
I stretch out my legs without regrets.