The Edge, an Ode to Tamotsu Yato


The edge
The edge of what?
The edge of a thought
Hanging dangerously on the lost note
The lost note that you can never hear
Unless you listen, quietly, to the noise
When music surrounds you and thought inhales you
You build religion from walls
Walls, painted, frescoed deliberate
With heavy men and heavy spear
And you find time has grabbed their hands
It squeezes tight and leaves its mark
Beautiful, pure and dribbling
Rub your hand across the plaster
And see how it comes away tarnished
You watch the images try to move
But they are the smut, the mark that stays
The busts all stare
Their gazes fixed on their ghost’s ideals
There are some whom hold no moral
There are some who hold no stain
The centre of a line
The one flower that is deeply rooted
Two shoes and the lower garments
What would you do in Tokyo?

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