I sit in the open lawn
a lawn full of earth and skeptic memoirs
the scattered Congregation of unskewered mind.
I see a mushroom sprouting here in the garden,
the thick shoots clinging another.
Co-existence must be a plaster?
And then I hear the temple bells,
altogether, the sound similar to my mother’s laughter.
but there are other moments occurring in the noon,
a cry so stuffed with the yellow air,
thick & warm,
moist layers of Earth’s lip.
Other occurings happen
where the housewife takes an oath to fight,
a child who hums the songs of surrealism
There is a hem of nebulous despair lined down my skirt
as if it holds the grief of the entire city,
the tattered brood of paper roses.
I find serenity in the eyelids of pain, too often.
What does it make me?
An artist or a doctor?
Nature, in the noon, spills the seeds of a distant truth
to thy naked eye.
Come sit, have a cup of the black tea, I prepared.
The story is long for your forlorn heart would claim the pain in a moment or two.
The chain I talk today, oh, sorrow is diabolical.
So frugal, barbarous.
The inside of my heart left the colonies of fairy dust as if.
As I cross my wrist, hear the crackle of the bone.
The crackle of my solitude.
lit in my eyes,
the burning glaze you see,
the dilapidating music you hear,
come sit, have another cup of the black tea.
The ruckus runs through my dry skin, joining dots on my skin,
creating shambles like a dead corpse
The arms extend late nights to grab a bottle of comfort, you see?
The comfort — a meadow, oh, the sweet meadow.
Peace like the ravishing Orchids, white nature.
Yes, the soft feather stating, gorgeous wings, infinite joyous tales to discover.
Oh, you finished the tea, wish a refill?
For this soul can say the darkest of the chronicles,
like the flowing wishful, the evergreen Ganges.