Crawling the streets aimlessly; the sunlight’s clasping the earth
drunken and wild from the heat of the longest day
the passing clouds in the dullest sky
getting drunk by the smell of the
fresh white berries hanging
from the prideful tree as
a vintage chandelier
gazing down and
lighting up
the castle’s
dreams.

Falling
down on the
humid soil covered
by lucky pennies and
the ants in a hundred rows
marching home with crumbles
for their summer festivities and
flashing back, back and forth, to the
childhood stories; jumping up, watering the
persimmon tree; the time that all I cared was the fresh
white berries and the rest was just dressing up my all-time dreams.

S

The voyage goes on then off to…

Where the silence stands for nothing
and he stands still on blue velvet
or on muddy lanes with his Dr. Martens
like a thousand in the battleground
saluting bee the queen.

When she sings the words, digesting
his purest tone and when the marble heart’s
dancing on her cracked bones
while regretting her own heart
fifty on a hundred off.

She’s off to where the currents take her
one direction or maybe five with a
heart full of going-backs where it blooms
not like his, but glows and melts
just like the past.

To the baffled lanes full of wins
when the failures betrayed them once
she stands still just like him, walks the world
leaves the fears, keeps the faith, her little
faith up high.

S

act calm and
aband a want
as far as dawn;

alas all
hands can
wrap a band
as dark as a man;

stand tall at last
and watch
ash fall;

what a blast
that fast
fat ass sang at
a half mass.

S + 3

She looks abused with a busted heart. The black veil is her sole hope to cover her deep scars. Propped against the sun-dried bricks on the sheer walls, her tearful gaze is on the tiny little pebble that builds her never-to-arrive mañana. She thinks of nothing and would rather drop her thoughts of an unfinished world with no mercy.

In contrary, she looks being all loved yet owns a blurry heart. While questioning the parallel lines, she looks at her veil without the slightest clue of the deadly scars. Yes, she stares at something unanswered while wiping the salt off her eyes. In her nakedness, she holds a white towel just to sympathize with her sorrow, her joylessness, her hopeless tomorrows. The sense of guilt rapes then murders her soul in slow motion.

In my sight, they are two in a sole soul. They are both alluring. They both define art.

S