My days sink in the pit of dark state of reality
under the quietness of the sky, beneath the tall balmy trees
I inhale my own emotion, sliced and open like oranges
and exhale to deliver the perplexed nerve
sulking into the golden pond
my eyes hallucinate the candles, lanterns
lit in my heart
I regenerate from the scratch of my hopes
Like shining bulbs, a foam of hope rubbing against my throat.
Mysteries like golden shadow, reality like dark ghosts
Vintage my thoughts, open up only to make a vintage web.
Run, hide, seek
or dwell in the bells of a golden canopy
that shall spread the brightness
in the same dark pit.