The Shamisen

The mists of the village welcomed a new visitor,
A monk of the road,
Tsugaru shamisen in hand,
Ragged in his very being,
Skeletal and mute,
A man whose eyes had never seen,

He played for rice and water,
His instrument his only possession,
Aside from the soiled cloth on his back,
The shamisen continues its mournful twangs,
Each pluck unleashing a tale of spirits,
Mystifying the villagers in its sad tones,

The old monk persisted,
With his music magic seemed real again,
Not a single eye remained dry,
Even the skies above acknowledged his rueful tune,
Falling in dismal sheets,
The village walked beside spirits once more,

And the shamisen continued its mournful twangs.

Isonade

Upon the sea we rest,
Callused hands upon nets and scales,
The winds rise in warning,
Waves lashing at our hull,
Begging us to flee to shore,
The storms know what approaches,
The monster the waters try to hide,
Teeth like tantos approach,
Ichthyology turned to nightmarish design,

The shadow cutting betwixt waves,
This is no shark,
No animal of biological leaning,
But a yokai,
A dread spirit of myth,
Isonade,
A barbed tail like a typhoon,
Ready to impale fleeting lives up on deck,
It could be our briny and thrashing end.

Culinary Art

The kitchen is a workshop of a different kind,
With its own arsenal of craftsmen’s tools,
Knife and stove,
Whisk and cutting board,
It’s a form of alchemy,
Culinary magic,
If cast by a maestro,
An ambrosia made at home,
Via a process in artful motion,
The scents play a symphony in the air,
Following a conductor of a culinary edge,
From the humble ingredients,
Bland and squatting in the pantry,
To dishes worthy of an empress,
Regal and flawless in execution,
Euphoria for ones tongue.

The Toad

I once chased from my den a toad,
As swift as a garuda,
Into the dank green of the yard,
A soft mist enshrouded the lawn,
It served as a suitable backdrop,
For our dance of drama,
Our filmic action chase,

This little green man,
He was of singular proportion,
An amphibian aristocrat,
I pursued him,
Through a garden I no longer recognised,
The lawn gave way to a bizarre realm,
As if walking into a dream,

The toad was there,
But somehow changed,
Elongate limbs and a humanoid stylistic leaning,
Colours of every prism swam around like tadpoles,
He began a chorus of frog song,
Melancholy to be sure,
But somehow filled with magic,

I lock eyes with him,
His bulbous oculi grow ever more violet,
I feel his tongue strike out at my thoughts,
Amphibian metaphysicality,
As his crescendo amps up,
I feel lightheaded,
Blackness pounces and descends,

I awaken far away,
With nary a memory of mine own,
Just the stink of sorcery upon my brow.

Veil Obscura

There are other worlds out there,
Alien and shadowy,
Full of miscreations,
Manticores and ghouls and chimeras,
Full of hunger,

Only a thin veil keeps them at bay,
A glass screen between the realms,
A blurry fortification,
A monochrome stained glass window we all push on,
Man doesn’t gently caress the wall,

Indeed man bashes against it incessantly,
Tempting fate and monsters,
As if galvanising our own slaughter,
Each crack in the veil is a dinner bell,
A welcoming call to the trough of this world.

Runic Heart

My heart is covered in sorcerous runes,
Umpteen symbols of every angle and shape,
What once was cold stone is now a piece of art,
Pictographs from my paramour,
These are no mere artifacts,

A line there,
A triangle over here,
Right angle betwixt obtuse,
They have enchanted me,
Filled these cold canals with vitae,

Etched by kindly scalpel,
Well-meaning but mangling nonetheless,
Damaged by loves embrace,
Yet somehow improved,
Made better by her prescence,

I was a clay golem once,
But this runic magic has granted me a pulse,
Ensorcelled these limbs to waltz and jig,
She did this,
Brought me to life.

Valentine

I often gaze at you,
When you’re not looking,
A cute little game,
Just to admire your profile,
Possessed of a fae beauty,
An innocence denied by yourself,

You’ve cast a spell upon me,
A strange conjuration,
Etched a rune into my heart,
I’ve felt an earthquake within my being,
Amorous fireballs in my chest,
Thunderstorms stirring my heart rate to elation,

It’s a pleasant warmth,
A magic of belonging,
Are you a sorceress?
A wicce?
I don’t want this ritual to be dispelled,
If I’m enthralled so be it,

I love you.

The Summoner

In a realm birthed by crystals,
A world beyond the fantastic,
Governed by magick and beings of eld,
Where life is threatened oftentimes by demon and beast alike,
And the cruel darkness thirsts for souls,

Here fight warriors of no martial proclivity,
No axes or blades in hand,
But command respect nevertheless,
For they wield an ancient power,
A magic of primal energy,

A gesture of arcane will,
And a seized fragment of godly power,
These summoners can call down the very fires of hell,
Raise up the fury of the earth you walk,
And rend asunder foes with gales blades,

These forces come from elemental ire,
Passions from gods of fire and storm,
Restrained and wielded by these magi in green regalia,
Heroes who bring the elements to bear against darkness,
For the good of Eorzea.

Cauldron-Born

A child of demonology,
They told me how I was made,
By that blasted coven,
Possessed of dark magic and darker intents,
I was spawned by no natural means,
Formed by ritual in lieu of conception,

Dragged from the abyss,
From that infernal bubbling womb,
Scratching at the cast iron feebly,
The cold skin of this cauldron,
Contrasting against my seared ruby skin,
A mere fell homunculus,

Into that vessel they allotted great labour and pain,
Poisonous herbs of all shades and temperaments,
Liquid spite in floods,
Pigs hearts and crows eyes,
Galvanising the broth to rouse sorcerous nascency,
Magic to beget my fiendish form,

Why sire such an abomination?
Why bring evil to life?
For its own sake they told me,
I have no inherent goal,
No good reason to exist,
For I am cauldron-born.

Mandrake

It’s finally supper time,
Our nightly ritual,
The victims are already at the trough,
But I’m missing a vital component,
The broth is incomplete,
This little mandrake,
It’s just the ticket,

This earthy fruit of foulness,
It will sent them careening into fantasy,
A final dream for the little souls,
Hallucinogens to cleanse the pallette,
Before the poison does its deed,
This heathenry,
It shall be akin to sorcery,

Into the soup you go,
Keep it quiet now,
My little botanical homunculus,
Dont reveal yourself to them,
You may appear infantile,
A parody of a child,
But you’re a monster tonight.