.
its midnight blackness is almost dark enough to match the mood
falling rain raindrops are almost enough to mask the tears
the flashing of lightning and the crashing of thunder mock the need to lash out at anything that moves
the cool breeze that almost relieves the red heat of rage carries the bittersweet memories of other lights that have vanished into the night
the thunderstorm dwindles to a fresh smell that is almost the fickle promise of a new day
The white heat of raging thought reflected in a single tear is not enough to stem the black velvet tide that engulfs all desire
the passing storm is only a brief familiar comfort allowing a slight catch of breath before the rising of the mourning sun
.
Offered here are some pen scratchings from a ScurrilousMonk. Ordained Soto Zen priest,a disreputable beggar, lost from the fold, homeless, and storm tossed in the wilds of Samsara. A travel essay, from this long strange journey that vanishes in an instant, and is gone in a flash.
