If then by the river where tears are hung low and stream albeit with its flow, then I must remind myself to fly with the blueness of my sacred scars.

I must peek around the bushes of this musky forest and hung low beneath the painted glass sky, where painted by shallow blue and bland pinkish canvas and clouds hanging grey and brisk.

I must learn to be still where birds flee when they gather around my presence and sing screeches of pain and hope.

I must lie down the billowy surge of these big waves that tries to weigh me down; for I must learn how to sing under the water and keep my nose dry and eyes swelling while I was beneath the painted glass sky.

For even when the trinket beads of my sweats holler at the sight of my numb hands and feet carried away by the quantum of the deep blue sea and the way it glorify the kiss of the clouds,

I must be like the rain so I can stay gloomy forever and the river may have its story to tell how its philanthropy saved me from a bucket of bloods from the war.

Time passes by like a whistle in the wind. Ignored and only observed within the thickness of one's skin. The once gnawing temptation in Lula's eyes were now exchanged in kaput like a dead black swan in the lake.

It grew on her and she can only justify it by moving her legs back in forth and forward with her ballet shoes; she can only obtain her physical through the applause of everyone around her. Yet, there were trickles of blood forming inside her internal wound — as the piano strikes another note in A minor, she can only whisk in pain and undone drafts in her head. "Tis will be over", she raises her head upon the crowds heaping in excitement, she turned around and flew her wings upright and the heads of the audience once more clapped in vain and delirium nonsensical pleasure.

As Chopin's symphony were almost in the last note, she stood straight and made her way to the middle. There, she locked eyes with her forbidden lover and a small smile throughout. The intensity of another Vivaldi's winter classic can be grasp once more and another set up of white swans gathered together — formed a circle and she went in the middle. Her eyes turned black and her wings bleed another tint of jet black and crimson. The crowds awed in reverence and she soared above them. A starlet in the headless crowds and dreary sweet rustle of voices gave her another bliss.

And while she was served aloft, there were another macabre symphony that plays through the soft rough piano; it was a solemn prayer and they were the kind souls going up to the heavens.

"Go on, Salem. Play the winter magic," Salem could only look at his muse and he strike another note, passing notes two steps from their 'haven'.

Lula slowly ripped her wings for the last time and smiled to all the headless men. Her satin dress reveals her plumpy chest and an hourglass body. Lula is a goddess black swan. Men could only forward their eyes and threw her pennies once more and she could only move in her balletic conventional pose. For the last time, she flew with her black tinted wings and they were all beheaded.

The white swans began to sing in a solemn outcry until it became too remorseful. The white swans turned their heads down when they met Lula's dead eyes. Her laugh echoing the whole stadium with its own persona and it is like crawling down into waltz where it reaches their earshot. They can only sing in albeit and expensive heads started to explode.

"Two steps from hell," she sings.

Then she met the sun rising above the sky
superior to its servants, for 'tis the bright light
giving shelter to trees and flowers —
her morning were as rough as the dried sunflowers.

She ne'er-do-well at nights that seem to haunt her every time the moon arises from below —
the moon whom she hates when it strikes at six o'clock and the sun sets at five o'clock, she never gets the time to smile.

Tomorrow with her is never home.
A night with her could be considered as the curse.
From o'er the horizon, she looks up above, and scream, “Even songs I love I could not hear!”
Her little hymn and tones turned into lulla-byes —
a lullaby to good-bye.

“Tis the time to go home,"  she said, but what if night ne'er sets down and tomorrows turned ashes and good-byes?

When will she go home?

There he stood outside the windowsill waiting for the wind
to whisper in her ears, his soft call of her name
heed the faceless man, and there he stood, outside the windowsill.

Her soul awakens and her hand in her chin
fresh from the bathe of her blood. There Avernus and
faceless, standing outside her chamber waiting for the woman to fall asleep.

The faceless man then wanting to reside by her side,
softly lulling her into death, prickling her thumb with a needle of life and death
through the parallel of his world and hers — there he stood waiting for his muse.

He grows slowly and deeply, his stomach churning; savoring
her blood in his mind, he waits until she falls asleep.

Her eyes wandered through the thin port outside her room —
the trees harshly peering through her window,
it is as if, they were telling dark tales in the midnight dawn of the night.
Avernus then sang in his native tongue; his muse terrified at the sight of him yet there was
comfort between the wind and the chilly night outside her window.

“It’s cold outside, why are you standing there?” She called out.

“Flightless bird, american mouth..." She sang as she sways her curvy body in the middle of an empty room. I saw how she smiles at the thought of a man dancing along with her, I wish that was me.

The long hallways were as easy to stroll by—as I love feeling the paintings nailed on the wall, I once discerned the lovely voice I always want in my system. She was singing her favorite song again; "I was a quick wet boy diving too deep for coins..." I remember how it became my lullaby every time I could not fall asleep and I lay there, reminiscing every words, every note she is hitting, I remember how I can compare her to a painting. Where an art is a compliment by being in its unique state and at the same time, the bitterness of being complicated.

She was a painting, I could never outgrow of. She was a flightless bird, I am a side character who longs for her, who gazes at her swaying her curvy body back and forth—her lips tainted like grey clouds forming another rain. Her skin as rough as my palm sketching another art—her feet closer than the ground, neighboring with the coldness of the white marble tiles; I stood there longing for her. I stood there, raised my hand and waved through her direction.

Even when she could not see, she was my prized possession I will ne'er have.

She stopped and peaked at the door where I no longer stand and I breathe a sigh of relief—this time, it will never hurt to leave. I smiled, she will never know.

Her sweet dance in the empty room is what ruled in my head, she will never be gone out of my head.

...and now, I bleed for being lost without her. My flightless bird.

How long will these enigma of misfortune can be carried out by
my hands—laid and lewd
shining with mud and uncertainty.

How long will the stones be put into pressure
to become the diamonds in the city—where known is familiar
and the unknown is discreet and mystical.

My head throbs with excruciating pain—it can be called as emptiness, a glass without water,
whom the sound shrieks like death is coming.

Into broken pieces of the diamond city—I have felt the pressure, the innate madness of forsaking the world and the world knowing my limits and the little shadow that keeps me company beneath my bed.

How long, oh, how long will these enigma of misfortune be laid out in my grumpy hands—in between secrets and opportunities.

How long, to be an artist?

If I tell you, my muse,
how I long for your presence
amid the desert in the crack of dawn —
would you saunter by and stay
until these wounds be in silence
and covered by your unpredictable peace,
will you stay?

My muse, when I write you, no name
no shade, no face — a beauty with only
a mere part of your body in a physical dimension
of my story, with you here, I feel
the sense of belonging
the unknown familiarity,
take a plunge, face the mirror —
I am there, I am there.

You were born in May,
in full moon by the seaside.
You were crying melodies
and the current flow of the waves,
carried you to me, in reality, in dream,
in song, while your face
soft and maiden for what I saw in your eyes.

The past, the future,
how you brought comfort —
while my book stays there, in draft,
in awe of you, my muse.

This is how I celebrate the month of May,
where are you muse?
come and take a look in your creator —
I am here, I am here.