The Samurai Returns

Some guy I know, from recent past,

He came back from Japan

(Adopted home? Maybe).

Full of samurai tales,

Putting faceless corporates to the sword,

Only, he'd left the sword behind.

He had only a briefcase, heavy

With burdensome hates and revenge.

He was hyper, to the point of near-mania.

But, then again, I could understand why,

Having driven down those tracks myself.

Well, ritual deathless suicide

In the face of the machine does no good.

He had no job. I'd come damn close.

But the train goes right on chuffing.

The recriminations are agony,

They tear at the soul

Deeper than those official envelopes.

I could read, in his eyes, the shock,

The disbelief, despite his words.

Yeah, man.  Count me in. I've been there.

Cry, get drunk, or threaten to blow the government apart,

But the sick reality is still there.

You know, he told me of a Japanese movie.

The very last scene is this samurai,

Sword in hand; the camera pans back

Revealing countless bodies all around.

And my friend's eyes lost their daze,

Lit with a brilliance that worries me still.