The ghost hunter

 

A strand of

the scent of jasmine

on dark night’s breath,

It enters the crack

in a concrete heart,

It bores a tunnel

through the stony mass of pain,

To reach the core where

the ache has perpetually lain;

to be as near to it as possible;

to melt into its heart;

to become pain itself;

to transform its soul,--

its fundamental suffering self.

 

The strand of fragrance

with determination on the tip of its wings,

Chasing the ghosts of pain

meandering like a serpent,

To possess them;

hunt and haunt them;

get them embodied with love;

convert them into the religion of hope.