Yielding Will Wielded
Departed from a womb,
born an inception of heeded conscious catacomb.
From a brown orb tainted pair of half moon gazes,
curious and deciphering child’s play guises.
As orbits continuity passes,
a sacred bowl of water trickles,
conceptual feeding and flowing begun,
winding through, and through ambiguity.
Gone interlocked souls,
I hope to feel once more but -
passion rarely lasts.
Inked tears come forth,
my voided soul desires to be written on.
was my passion gone in my nails?
let it draw on my cheeks,
albeit wet streak’s blunted.
prophesied for a glass to glass.
Was it the mirror?
was my fair existence skinned?
formed clownery still.
As for to grasp on reflectors on you,
It doesn’t live.
As for a glass to lie on.
Visaged continual reflectors,
Soul synthesizing psyche.
Anterior to anterior subtleties bygone,
What could still glisten?
Name No Man
If a man calls you by your name,
They know what you were supposed to be called.
And if a man named you.
They are more likely naming themselves,
what they are supposed to be to you?
Was there a man supposed to be named back?
When from your lips has called no man.
(Another 2017-2018 piece)
You won't found me,
On a milling crowds around.
I was on a leaden land,
On the terrain of lights,
Of my dreams,
I fell into a deep slumber.
Fortified with a stockade,
Eyes closed, static.
Awaiting to be found.
Before, I lost in a delusion.
Before you were left,
In the midst of confusion.
(I sort of wanna retitle this into "Alain" or "Daurdor" for some sort of reason)
An ink out of your blood,
dried and traces your body,
verging on how tangled your tale.
pale laces weaving back out of your skin,
your soul long for a retrieval -
to thread your view’s fabric,
and a portrait to alter traces,
to set you in motion again.
“What would it be? That one you would want to keep only.” I was asked by a man with a toothbrush moustache from the late 19th century, almost looking like Adolf Hitler, maybe he is the Adolf Hitler talking to me which I was from the 20th century, maybe not. Well, it doesn’t matter to me if he is or not. Then he continued. “till’ living was no longer astir.”
To perceive, he was talking modern and my imagination is distorted.
I have a piece as an answer, I’m no artisan- so it was only painted on my mind, envisaging a canvas of mine.
That one I want to keep?
. . . . . .
It was a midnight scene, in a ghostly time. There is one walking beside the iron sheet fence on the middle of the street. A woman on her feet. The canvas view was behind her, with the wide, long gray street along with those high utility pole and street lights which casting rays of light grays. You could see dark gray drips on her leg, it was wet. The left side of the street, after the pavement, there was a shattered sea, on the other side, there was a shallow farm. In front of the woman back figure, there was a foot bridge in steel.
I don’t know if it was an unfinished canvas on my head, or I just can’t finish thinking about it.
There are things that should be told about the canvas; her leg was dripping blood, it was gray so you can’t tell. Both sides of the street were actually just reflection, mirrors. There was a white pigeon flying on her right shoulder, to be frank, It has no brilliance. Just a brilliance wannabe in gray.
It was a grayscale canvas. There was no white pigeon but a pigeon that wore the lightest scale of gray.
The one I want to keep?
But the shades, tints and shadows could trace it.
“Sanity” was the piece name.
“Don’t you need sanity?” He was murmuring in my head, I was questioning myself using Adolf Hitler’s facade (his facade is not a bad idea, after all he is an artist but frustrated.) and added “Like a usual and realistic necessity? Wasn’t it?”
If that is? There is no way I would need sanity.
I would need a gray notion to hold my sanity.
(This work might remain unedited and flawed cos im not really fully conditioned but I really want to write this one.)
C O U N T W I S D O M
(wisdom and odds)
takes over fine wits.
2 3 4 5 6 7 8 1 2 3 4 5 6
No content - No content - No
I knew you’ve always lurch wanting someone —
who could glow as a furling flame with a cosy warmth,
dazzle as continuous centennial headlights on your leaden land.
I found it all exasperating,
as I espied a girl who could emit celestial cluster of stars.
All twinkling, all flickering gas and dust —
held up by her gravitational mastery.
Strucking me all these infuriation —
for all that cliche yearning for starlight of yours,
never did you know,
only to look up, blanched shades of you,
and makes your face look so pale.
And only to look at you leaves the crimson flush out of me;
I only wanted you to flash me as matches —
igniting glimpses from your squinting eyes.
Flash me as matches,
then I’ll show you myself glint,
only with a crystal facade —
you’ll see me.