Sending that song;
sending those images;
they were supposed to
put the pieces back together,
but they are like a pile of
monzonite below a daylight moon.
It was to take something more
to make the magic work;
all the images sent were
nothing less than granite crystals
under fragile, baby nails
I was only made for a big flash.
Not this other thing that
might hold me here,
my only signature was a flower.
The emperor's symbol of longevity
the white kiku to bloom and die.
I am just a scribe; with ink stained digits,
a pauper in silk and soot
never meant to see that face
that now lives in my ghost life.