A Street of Sorrows

I walk among lanterns, dimmed by mist—

these red moons swaying in

the quiet ache of morning.

The cobbled street remembers

every burden carried—

sacks of sorrow stitched

into the backs of silk kimonos,

burdens bled in threads of chrysanthemum.

Children once danced here,

a pirouette of promise,

their laughter a high twitter

above the clatter of sandals—

but time has plucked them

like strings gone slack

on a forgotten guitar.

There was a king once,

mad with the venom of jealousy,

turning warmth into frost,

and love into ruin.

I watched a queen fall—

not from grace,

but into silence.

Even her ghost felt cold

when it returned

to forgive what should not

have been forgiven.

You ask me

how to grieve

when the body lives on—

how to hold the burden

of days that rot slowly,

sweet with memory,

sour with truth.

You do not.

You wear it,

like a second skin,

like snow that will not melt

even under spring lanterns.

The glimmer of hope—

it is there,

behind veils,

in the soft press of a child's hand

or the way plum blossoms open

despite everything.

Yet I still see

his ghost, the boy—

the false puppet of love lost too soon,

twittering like a distant sparrow

on a fence too high

for comfort.

Still see

the faces of fools

and kings

blurred beneath umbrellas,

parading

through centuries of regret.

Loss does not leave.

It follows,

cloaked in lanternlight,

and settles

in the lines around your eyes,

like wisdom’s cruel tattoo.

I remain,

a wise fool in woven slippers,

watching joy pirouette

into rain.

And the tale continues,

as all tales do—

painted fresh in kimono colors,

written again in the fog,

etched in the ache

of a hand reaching

for something

already gone.