I Have No Castle; I Make Unmovable Mind My Castle
I have no sword; I make the sleep of the mind my sword.*
I can’t sleep. Does that makes me a pacifist or my mental sword still sheathed?
Enclosed, my mind pregnant with cold metallurgy of profanity — spitting hatred as opposed to battering vengeance.
The sea breeze didn’t offer the usual zen-like serenity, in this balmy night.
I spat tragedy. I cried apathy.
I can’t sleep.
Thus I sheath my “sword” and spill the fluid of “innocence”. Till I lay asleep in the arm of ethereal “succubus”.
*Extract from the Samurai creed, referring to the condition of detachment known as “Muga.” The Spirit of Zen.