In Halls of Jade
In halls of jade, where shadows cling and silence breathes,
katana gleam, their polished steel reflecting battles past.
Heads are bowed like willow branches weeping in the rain,
each burdened soul a silent atlas of sorrows unconfessed.
Not merely flesh, but battlegrounds where duty wars with dreams,
they bear the lacquered mask, a fragile, painted shell.
Each night it cracks beneath the strain,
and with each dawn, they paint it back to hide the hell.
Voices sharp as shattered glass, yet masked with whispers of the breeze,
echo down the corridor of flickering lamplight.
In silence, loyalty becomes a cage,
its iron rusted, yet still it binds the song.
The moon wanes pale, its cold flame strains against the dark,
casting light like the touch of a forgotten hand.
It is not death but duty they revere,
as masks wear thin with each passing stand.
They move like statues carved in jade, yet hearts within them rage and burn,
a longing for release from honour’s chains.
Yet they march forward, step by step, in trance,
bound not by freedom, but by quiet flame.
The scent of incense masks the metallic tang of fear,
as irony weaves through silken care, a shadow unseen.
They ache for life, yet cannot stray—
each act a piece of self unpinned, a sliver lost.
For strength lies not in lifted sword or spear,
but in a gaze that sees beyond the gilded veil,
a warrior’s longing hidden deep within,
for peace not found in war’s iron rail.
And in the end, when lacquered masks dissolve,
and voices cease to whisper oaths in vain,
they’ll rest beneath the quiet willow trees,
the branches weep for masks they could not keep.
In Halls of Jade
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
In Halls of Jade III
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
1/2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
In halls of jade, where shadows cling and silence breathes,
katana gleam, their polished steel reflecting battles past.
Heads are bowed like willow branches weeping in the rain,
each burdened soul a silent atlas of sorrows unconfessed.
Not merely flesh, but battlegrounds where duty wars with dreams,
they bear the lacquered mask, a fragile, painted shell.
Each night it cracks beneath the strain,
and with each dawn, they paint it back to hide the hell.
Voices sharp as shattered glass, yet masked with whispers of the breeze,
echo down the corridor of flickering lamplight.
In silence, loyalty becomes a cage,
its iron rusted, yet still it binds the song.
The moon wanes pale, its cold flame strains against the dark,
casting light like the touch of a forgotten hand.
It is not death but duty they revere,
as masks wear thin with each passing stand.
They move like statues carved in jade, yet hearts within them rage and burn,
a longing for release from honour’s chains.
Yet they march forward, step by step, in trance,
bound not by freedom, but by quiet flame.
The scent of incense masks the metallic tang of fear,
as irony weaves through silken care, a shadow unseen.
They ache for life, yet cannot stray—
each act a piece of self unpinned, a sliver lost.
For strength lies not in lifted sword or spear,
but in a gaze that sees beyond the gilded veil,
a warrior’s longing hidden deep within,
for peace not found in war’s iron rail.
And in the end, when lacquered masks dissolve,
and voices cease to whisper oaths in vain,
they’ll rest beneath the quiet willow trees,
the branches weep for masks they could not keep.
In Halls of Jade
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
In Halls of Jade III
In halls of jade, shadows cling,
polished steel recalls past wars.
Willow branches, weeping low,
bow as souls bear unseen weight.
Flesh is battleground and bond,
mask a shell, fragile and worn.
Nighttime cracks, dawn paints again,
strength to hide the hell within.
Shattered glass in whispers speaks,
down the halls of flickered light.
Iron cages, silken threads—
loyalty’s rusted chain remains.
Pale moon strains, a silent hand,
as honour weighs on fragile face.
Statues burn beneath their masks,
chained by vows, though flames may rise.
Incense clouds, yet fear persists,
sword-bound spirits ache for life.
Duty wars with dreams unbound,
each act strips a sliver bare.
Strength is found beyond the blade,
gaze that sees the hidden truth.
Peace evades in war’s embrace,
but calm awaits in willow shade.
When at last masks fade away,
oaths are whispers on the breeze.
Willows weep for lost disguise,
souls released, and shadows lift.
1/2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Oct 27, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1850460879776837742?t=XmGvkePzLqgEIqD1ZVuRYA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/1693
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