To Catch FIRE

He paints.

Clad in kimono.

Vermillion accents bleeding over emerald embroidered hues.

Each angle,

a cut,

and each motion;

anew.

However he knows not from where each path proceeds.

Issuing from void. Subtle. Discreet.

His masterpiece; death.

His attitude. Acceptance.

A will; resolute.

His path? Repentance.

Not to deal with angry gods from the spoiled days of lore.

Rotting cherryblossoms and feet binded whores of war.

But to draw the arrow straight and true once again.

Unsheathing the twofold sword... and pen.

Those who sought the tao found the blade.

Those who thirsted blood; at the bosom of kannon like babes.

The miser found the stage,

and the merchant; a parchment page.

His laughter mixed with the sake fused

aroma of alcoholic tears.

His sobs drowning in memories. So many years.

What was it that he wished to accomplish?

Or had it already occurred with the first issue of breath?

Was he free to be in chains or the reverse?

Would dying make him... anything less?