Tropical horizons of numb walls,
Wherein lies my dead mind, impotent veins.
Inside of my skins bursts, spelling the blank point
where there is no moss, where there is no sapphire
Sustenance to soliloquy dreams dipped in blank paints
Who am I?
A corpse of redundant hopes, a pool of mosquitoes, tortoise eye.
Stammering lips gather a thorn, to poke my swollen window,
who shall remember? Who shall smother?
It’s all blank.
Rubbing my fragile hands over my soiled neck,
I felt a vibration from the crooked radio’s tune
The twirls of flaccid rays and patterns of black and white
always speak the sweet dazzling truth.
My mouth says the violent words as my eyes perch on illusion.
This world makes me sick and sick till my heart spills
collision, evaporation, disappearance.
I am a convex tube of dying lotus,
sinking on the ebb of dark air. I am dark, yet beautiful.
Palpitations of bleeding words, conjure my virgin existence.
I hear your cactus voice, deciphering and churning my own blessings
I am sick today. I am no one today for my poetry even rests today.