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?