poem i wrote.

the sun hangs heavy, gold and grave,
a dying ember on the wave.
the wind, like silk, in whispers glides,
through temple eaves where fate abides.

upon the stone, a shadow stands,
a sword entwined with blood and hands.
petals drift in crimson streams,
blossoms torn from silent dreams.

oh, to die in beauty’s bloom,
to carve one’s name upon the tomb,
not with breath that fades to dust,
but steel that sings of love and lust.

let lilies wilt, let roses fade,

but let me be the chrysanthemum blade.