lightening runs down my being
hair waking up from a deep slumber
and my skin strangely alive
I shiver with a lovely rhythm
the way clouds do on cold, dry days

tongue moving mutely, my lips emit words
as empty as crumbled up papers themselves
a drizzle, cut, perhaps some windy sprinkle
cut, sunshine, cut, pour, cut, gusts, cut
dry, still, silent air; she whispers to me

I freeze to the sky, eyes stuck over a void
no verses, no words, not even a sigh
I melt to ground, as silent as the moon itself,
but moon needs no words to write poetry
I do, my silence isn't euphony, I don't emit hope
words don't bow themselves before me
I do before them, none of me matters

I'm just my words. I am an old parchment
that was too full to be filled with words.
I roam around with the wind, stepped on by birds.
gone on unwritten, unheard, unseen
lightening running down my body
I tremble, still as stone, empty as a corpse.

Flower does steal hearts
but I wonder how the petals feel
wonder if they enjoy their lovely imprisonment
if they ever think of breaking free
when a flower dies it's all but humanly
does not laugh one day, still the other
does not walk down the road unsure of reaching home

death's patient like that
it too enjoys a good show before taking a shot
too likes to play before gulping down its food
first the sepals turn yellow
then mustard like sunlight through dusty glass
then the blush starts to fade
and petals begin to wither
like an old woman, her pretty face sleeping
blanketing them, the tired leaves curl up
waiting for wind to wash 'em away

I wonder if they actually die
if freedom's life, I wonder if they've just been born
I pluck a sunflower and I pull at it wings
I collect all and hand them to the wind
tell her to be gentle, she promises, relieved
I bid them a goodbye, they're too shocked to reply
so I watch as the wingless birds soar around the sky
yes, soon the wind will tire and let them fall
yes, they'll settle down and rot in the dirt or drown in sea
but they'd have rotten anyway

yes the last remnants of their existence
will depart with the gusts but they always did
so I tell the plant her babies are finally free
I don't see her smile, I don't need to
I never saw her cry for her flowers
quietly she'd let go, a little to serenely
as morning breeze took their corpses away

I never was a fan of flowers anyway--
I see them everywhere, in castles, in glass jars
in gardens and stone mansions, pressed in books,
taped on windows, tied in hair, ever so pretty, ever so.
washed and clothed and jewelled and caged
Someone shouts at me from the street
saying their kite just fell on my roof; if I could return
I take in their dusty profiles, and ragged clothes
faces lit by the splendid smiling suns--
I think my petals have settled down.

Your majesty, I’m not here as a beggar
I am here to deliver to you a letter
carved on a bruised piece of wood
And why not paper you may ask
For life can tear you up, says good

Travelled without a moment of rest
for I’m here to deliver you a request
Plea of a human who lives far away
past the Childish hills, in Forest of youth
Where hopeless souls, they walk astray

I’ve kept it safe from every danger
hidden it away at sight of any stranger
Here I am from a being you once tore
With due respect, O king, I’ll dare say
It’s not for the sheeps that he wore

It’s word of a man, all who does is lie
But to this, I’d say it’s an utmost envy
To indeed all the souls who now rest
who lie in eternal peace away from you
For you, they say, are a knife in the chest

Pardon me, lord, please, leave him alone
He’ll be glad, he wishes for him to be gone
Says he he’s sick of hunting in that place
For no one’s a patient in Forest of youth
An escape from your reign is all, your grace

I’m here from a person who wears a mask
For showing your scars is not an easy task
Begs you to pity, shoot right through the heart
Make it stop, end your prey, take the game
With your mercy could he begin a new start

Now that I’ve done my job, I have to go
I too loathe you, thought you ought to know
Out on the distant land, we all see a light
O king, O life, we traitors have one last wish
Wish we to banish from your kingdom tonightr

Laced with blue
Embedded with rue
I put on my dress
Shining with fluke
Inside I'm a mess
Out awaits a duke
Prepare I to flatter
Try I not to shatter

Trembling, I open the door
My heavy eyes on the floor
I hear the sound of his smile
Takes then he my bony hand
We walk slow, down the aisle
I think I feel them all stand
they gawk at our spotless shine
power, beauty, a match so fine

A perfect walk in a perfect hall
till body decides to give in and fall
In sudden, I hear all of the silence
name me, label me til I'm unnamed
gore me, control me, I've seen violence
I've been through, I've been trained
face of my duke's engraved with a frown
I still, I shrink, again I've let him down

though kindly he extends a hand
though slowly I take the stand
though still perfect we are together
I who saw glass break to shards
know many pieces we can't gather
know too many unflipped cards
too many of them yet to be turned
too many secrets yet to be learned

Adorned in red,
made with regret
he put on his dress
with misery so bright
to meet his mistress
on this cold, dead night
still he wished a try
to being her some joy

scared he knocked with grace
admired then her pretty face
saw her walk, then fall slightly
and helped her back with glory
tiresome it was to walk quietly
wished he to say he was sorry
but he too knew it was in vain
they had to suffer this ugly pain

Though he loved her deeply
and knew so did she briefly
there were other things to adore
power, pearls and dresses that sway
wars, swords and bodies to gore
still he hoped, oft sat down to pray
for return of life in their dry eyes
for a melody of their silenced cries

As I shatter to velvet ground again
their eyes follow me down like rain
though jewels don't match with love
it too has long run away perhaps
Spread its wings, out gone the dove
next to me, I see my duke collapse
how lovely, we are the perfect ashes
of two impatient, imperfect clashes

I wonder how this cold, cold winter night
differs from death
twin sisters parted at birth;
one fixed and waited for,
other uncertain and feared
both mixing up their definitions

Numbness of my hand, my feet;
first a painful cold gust,
then a painless colder one
current under skin, fire in bones.
then you start to loose the sensation of cold
finger by finger, every vessel giving in
every muscle shuddering alone
so alone, so alone, so alone
your body could split asunder
how can the cold hurt you then
you've become a part of it

"peace at last" you whisper to night
but for how long, love, how long?
a mere second for
soon your blood will tire
your blazed heart vanquishing from its own ice
your teeth will turn on each other in desperation
hammer upon hammer and the battle will begin

"slow down, shut down" you plead to your aching body
so she does and
you lie still, snow casketing your being
soon you blend in with the dirt
but how long will you play the dead?
how long before you get it?
the twin is not coming
the night's cold but so's her sister
she isn't here, she doesn't pity

how long will you hope for her?
bandage the bruise, there's too much blood to bleed,
back away from the fall, put down the pistol,
untie the choker of rope, drain away the pills,
get off the bridge, step out the fire
you don't deserve an escape
you don't matter enough

soon this winter will sail away
and all your sins will be uncovered by the decaying snow
soon the sun will come out
tell me, how will you survive that light?
how to prevent your skin from cracking to shards
you're not numb, love, you only pretend to be
you're not dying, love, you aren't that lucky

you're not stuck but it doesn't matter
for you'll always find a way to prove against it
you'll build up a barricade around your chest
and cry out how painful it is to breathe
you'll dig your own grave and lie down dead
but dying won't **** you
you built up your fort and crushed it to groud
lit up a fire, watched your wings vanish to dirt
you're not stuck but it doesn't matter
you'll always find a way to tie up your hands

I'd let this winter freeze you to death
you'd reborn
I'd let the summer melt you away
you'd reborn
I'd call out to death, let her take you along
you'd reborn
you're reborn and die and reborn and die
and reborn and--

you'd die
"peace at last"
reborn.

I close my eyes hoping for dark but I only see grey;
some remnants of night's adieus,
distant sounds of day's footsteps
too early for the mighty sun,
too late for lovely moon
so the sky lingers reluctantly above me,
doubting ever doubting the arrival of light

But what is left of grey but its greyness
stretching infinitely over a vast void;
ever fading but only to younger grey
ever darkening never to a hue but grey.
no birth, no death, just a labyrinth  
caged somewhere in between the mess.

They say I can make whatever I want
of the universe because it's mine
but I hardly see the point in taking the trouble.
Still, if I could mould the stars into shapes
I'd make them to Jasmines
for what are they but shy kids that lay out their wings
in the devouring nights only to curl away
with the arrival of day.

I once saw a cluster of sparks singing in a nightly alley
they held their hands and danced about a blushing flame

what more horrible but the echoes of demons
laughing in depths of dark streets as they
celebrate their evils and bury their fangs
on the cooked bodies they stole by the setting sun
Ribs like bars of a prison holding the excited heart in place
collarbones so sharp they could rip open the flesh,
skin hard as leather, eyes placid filled with smoke
their shrill laughter that gnaws your sleep away,
ebbing and flowing side by side with the dark

I once saw a bunch of Jasmines walk behind a lively sun
Carried upon their withered backs the sacks of cement and bricks
On journey to building a house they'd never call home.

What more lovely than the sound of petals breaking,
dew dripping down their tips only to be snatched away by sun
what more beautiful than the sight of cracked lips,
concave cheeks, tentative hands and scared feet
the desperation of the tongue that takes you to puddles
the moment they hear the cracking of chains
a hunger so strong it makes the teeth shudder
hollowness of nights that pulls you closer to one more thievery
just one chunk of meat to quieten the stomach

Grey choking in white, grey chuckling in dark
grey chains, grey in the chains; grey sky, grey in the sky;
grey eyes, grey in the eyes; grey ballads, grey in the ballads.

That's what happens when you hang your jasmines to dry
under a sun that merely starves for ounces of hope

But what of hope?

They said the universe is mine but if I could squeeze
the life out of the sun, what would I achieve but
the flowers that incinerated decades ago--
the ashes of broken bones, vapours of clotted blood;
the nothingness of smiles, and the dryness of tears;
some sprinkle of love or hate, some gallons of lust;
carcasses of souls, some flesh engraved with wounds

what would I get but the corpses of light that the sun ****** out
the universe they claim belongs to me;
I hear my people screaming out, I see sun sending out its love,
the universe they claim belongs to me turning to cinders.

They say there's day after night but some only see grey
They shiver at sounds of demons joking,
then smirk at screams of stars blazing
but some only stand by the impassive sky watching grey
they fight battles upon battles with evil
then rest by the hanging bodies of the good
but some only stay by the left out winds, staring at grey
They scrape away the dark, paint it white
then cover it up with layers and layers of coal
but some merely sit by the songbirds listening to grey

But what is grey but the reminder of all the petals we ever plucked
and all we ever will in hopes the next that bloom are full of colour
What is grey but a mess of bodies of demons and the heroes
carpeting the deserted battle field that once fluttered with the winds

I open my eyes and the day is finally out
but you can hardly say.

Straight hair make me look more beautiful and less myself
Exactly what I thought I wanted.
Now I look at the girl in front of me and I wonder how she has changed
she writes down same stories of tragic hopes, as I do
her heart, like mine, beats in a tentative rhythm, confused by the tides of sentimental emotions that seem so vacant
she too gets tired of playing the pawn, she too drags the still of her being down the road of survival
she too struggles to love me
How, I've loved her and hated her for a young longevity
yet something in her is dimmer than the skinny, short girl that used to make faces at me
something about her sleek hair is less beautiful than the Hornet's nest on the tiny girl's head
Something in the valley of her lips, some glimmer in her eyes;
as if forcefully electrified. The little girl's eyes glimmered like a moon's,
mother once said the sun of her soul illuminated the black of her eyes.
I wonder what she'd say now.
But I am well acquainted with the source of the absence, and my partner is too.
We know too well. We know too well when we let go of our pearly little courage.
We know too well that as our eyes lingered at the boxes of hair-straighteners down the aisle, our courage felt a threat arriving.
But we were still young then, still little suns, so we let our mothers hold our hands and walk us out of the seducing store.
We know too well how our courage weakened when we envied our friends' mighty strands, straight and still like dead snakes hanging.
So as our polished fingers gripped on to the box, years later, our courage grew afar but then, we had decided not to notice.
I see her now.
She's right there, the little girl.
Behind me, behind my image
she speaks like a vivid memory, I smell sunshine blooming around her uncombed curls. Her spotted skin is clearer than our nails will ever be. The light of her lashes flutter more than our strands.
There she stands, no paint, no cloud.
She looks like a naked sun.
She tells us to wash our hair back to bushes; to enliven our faces, let powdered streams run down our necks. She doesn't mention our claws but more than once do we catch her staring. Says if she could pluck those dried petals out our lashes, she would.
Says if she could burn that hair-iron down to embers, she sure would.
Says if she could come out and hug us both till we loved each other once more, she would.
We stare at our sketched smiles, glossy valleys as if blood aching to drip. The nails that could clench at a soul and pull it out. Eye-lids weighed down by lashes, skin tired out by icing.
For a moment we let the hopeful silence swirl around us.
For a while, lost in battle of deciding between girl's eyes' shine or our crystal gloss, we still.
But it's too much.
Too hard to give it all up.
To wash away the mask, we'd have to peel off the skin. Bringing the hair back to life would be the death of us.
Too much, too hard, to quick, maybe later, just last time, step by step, some day, not now, too much..

Then we go back to burning our hair to numbness, dabbing dusts on
our shameful faces.
We're great painters.
We know that because when the little girl silently walks away, out of our reach, out of our eyes; when we are left on our own
we hardly recognise the artefacts we have created.