this chest is a woven basket trying to collect water. but the moon is not yet full, so be patient since every single night of ours is so tortured, boiled in our arid, vigorous anger. then we’ve been reacquainted with the lake in our headhorns
every vengeance has been entitled into poetry. yet one is still scrolling at the cellcorner, refusing to antagonize the sneaking sunrays intruding through window sunscreen. door has long refused to open, an uplooking face has peeled off and cracked
we’ve been cursed as secret fellows. sharing bloodstream in the lips of our drinking cup, also the ring of prayer. night must be faced in anger once in a while, sobbing tears sometime. but one is always hiding behind the curtain
then the mirror turns over and light stabs into our nostrils. our eyes have blinded, poundered by those leaving days, flying away. sometimes these hands long for painting flowers and butterfly’s wings starting to wreck
when our ages reveal and our painted masks have been fading off, some dust then will stay as dirt in our eyes. then those ailing hot eyes we shall deny for nothing. where shall we keep those handgrips while after dinner we always go back to sleep?
in mother’s womb we never really leave. as the chiming piano which always be read as an old photograph in sepia: emulsion of prayers. maybe time has deceived us so long, maybe our hugs won’t be easily understood, except by poetry
all right then. this chest is surely a woven basket. and water shall remain flowing, or rolling. and like an orphan shepherd as you told me last night, the boy will return to his contemplation, scrolling at the cellcorner. trying to avoid the intruding sun
sneaking through the window sunscreen. warming the pale eyes till all gayous stories washed away, also all the sad. then the hymn will start to sound from our blooming lips while our fingers keep unweaving the thread, rolling it again into the spinning wheel which we already understand its rhythm just well