When time passes and the strings
of her branches
harden from its spot —
life continues to go on.
Even when the music stops playing,
time never quit its soliciting
bids for tragic goodbyes.

The blue oak tree stood tall
while her leaves falling out in Autumn
and a forlorn hymn plays around her —
time is crucial and the world a rhetorical
place of wisdom and grief.

She stood there everyday
in stories and legends —
her body an art of desecration
with letters carved unsent,
she stood there, still.

The blue oak tree
danced on the mist of the sky —
the clouds swished its billowy mass
“life continues to go on”
it passes, with certain reasons
and uncertain excuses;
the blue oak tree
keep dancing in stillness.

The song stopped and
she stood there,
hardened her branches
while her leaves keep falling out
in Autumn,
and the wind in stillness —
there, she stood in years,
without a song, without a trail of dance,
without a life.

The blue oak tree died
while her body is used as an art of unsent letters.

Intensely, I traced his steps until he met
my eyes, the only gaze I welcome
with a reflection
of light, grey and hue of
excruciating colors—to serve
his mightiness in the forlorn night—
through the fields and the city,
everyone is following him.

Their mouth agape in the sight of
his face peering at his brides—in weeping, in despair, in all forms of wrath—hope and madness.

The moon creeps in the black of the night—with his voice lulling as a whisper, faint like a finger softly lingering its hands on the piano—
through the perilous scheme of the midnight dawn.

He then wept with his brides and kneeled down in front of me.
His linen gown and fur coat covering his silver body and his eyes shriek with only a weeping melody.

He faced me and my heart sank at the sight of him,
“My bride, how come you are facing such a horrible nightmare?”

He said and held my hand,

“Artemia, I am broken by the man whom I love so dearly. I faced death, inferiority, dreamless sleep, and my heart crawled out of my body,”

“Darling, you are a bride of the moon and a man will only love you if they get blinded by the light, and such us, we are the daughters of the night. A man who is in love with the moon, is out there waiting for you.”

He then walked away, faced another midnight with his bride gleaming with hope in the forlorn night, with the light, grey and hue of excruciating colors.

There, I saw how he turns into the god of the night.

I woke up from my stupor
of thoughts
where I bathe from the floods
of my own thinking and logic,
heard his knocking
heart and sang
just the lullaby,
merged with a stroke
of something,

I couldn't avoid
it wears me out
but I can't stand myself
from winding and running
into the land
where I can watch him
and see him
and hold him
and embrace him.

His divine voice
woke me up from my stupor
of thoughts
of my retired song
of my regrets
of my dying requests.

Oh, to discover him
near and down below —
oh, to meet him
and trace his palms
wriggling to get
my face — my eyes,
and feel him in me.

Following me
in another portal of my realm —
were his sole sound
I could tune in
and familiarize;
in the celestial music of his heart,
I can pick up my way back.

She was wobbling and sailing with the strokes—she was just bucking in all the dreads
and uncertainties—she was just staring and letting
the cold flood,
brush her naked feet.

The radiance that persists in her core—yet discovering that missing part;
Where is it?
Where can she meet it?
It was the same twists
that drove her alive
on the cushions
that piles around her feet—
it was meaningless
that she couldn't
wouldn't
understand—the notion of
her harsh sigh—the suffocating uncertainty that remains; that stays—circulating another form of pleasure,
in her spirit.

That is the curse at night—it drifts,
it resounds,
like a futile, annoying clock—she couldn't eradicate.

The pool of rain shadowed the sun, dancing with a tepid demeanor. City lights' glamour reduced the light of the sun—melancholy was evident on her face, accompanied by the distinguished incorporeal's breath of air. The late-afternoon tea and dried-out smoke of snowy November. 

It turned into night; the sun was still blatantly drowning in the pool of light, where a small trickle of its shadows tantalized the mockery arrayed in her face. Followed by the sickness in her stomach, pinching herself as she naively believed he loved her for all she is. 

After all, he was the one who called her a goddess and even paralleled her in the universe in which Aphrodite takes part. Surprisingly and naively, still believed conspicuous lies. It scarred her. A mountain that cannot be climbed; a river where blood flows continuously; a garden full of thorns. The face of a fool. 

The glamour wore off when he saw her on stage, where all of his queens and muses were. He wasn't even paying attention to her, and yet she was the only one who performed on stage—she rose and fell; she sang and moved like a goddess, surprising and naively believing he could take back her youth. 

He watched her rise. 
He watched her fall. 
He watched her lose her life. 

She hopelessly believed, with her skin and bones, that he'd choose her this time. He didn't.

The whistle of the winds
and the scattered leaves gathering
into the air breeze of November
while the music of the cricket's song
lull her away into sleep.

For tomorrow's morning, uncertain.
Her soft silky hair danced on the waves
of the trees;
and its leaves singing with the wood nymphs —
the road is busy with the cars passing
and the pavement's slipping.

“The future is ours.”
She said —
with her chest heaved.
The small droplets of the rain
felt by her skin
as she closed her eyes,
the meaning of her vision
stuck through her.

While tomorrow's may be uncertain —
but the future is hers alone.
Roaring thunders woke her
into a moment of bliss.
The once starless sky
is now filled with the trinkets
of destiny's creation —
maybe in this night alone,
her wishes came true.

That the future is hers alone.

My eyes were traipsing all across the room, my irked nose was lined with all its corroded details and the charred, foul smell of blood. Where my hands are firmly cradled and the sky is peeking through the cracked window. Am I hopeless?

"Just call my name on the edge of the night," My ears wobbled to the melancholy raspy voice of a man telling me before he faded away. I remember him grinning and caressing the tip of my nose, yet I couldn't open my pursed lips. "Call me and I'll run to you," His voice erupted throughout the house. It was like his plump lips were meeting my ears' tips."I really can't!" I whispered. You are too far, Sky.

I let my eyes wander through their blurry sight through the starless horizon from which the eclipse was striding into the darkness. The moon is serenading the hurricane, and the gusts of wind whistle and spin, blowing chill bumps through my bones.

Rapidly, a familiar sensation surged through my body—my eyes fixed on a spot where I was in the center of the forest, where the flowers were blooming as I sauntered by. I traced my fingertips and remembered that he pulled the flower and ended up dead on his bare fingers.

"You know that whatever you touch, it dies?" A faint chuckle I let out. He gazes his eyes into mine, penetrating through my soul, allowing me to drown in his mirror-less eyes. giving me a new illusion of myself, securing me in a sacred paradise. The thunder roared like a thirsty lion. He held my hand, and slowly, he vanished and burned into grey ashes.

Where the sky contains a fraction of truth and the heavens have got a hold of time, where the underworld brings chaos and chaos grants powers to mortals. Where he is Sky, eventually named after Death. Where he is mine and there in him lies the future. Where neither gods nor goddesses can intervene. where I could no longer call him "Sky." Only his lingering parts could I hang on to. I closed my eyes and waited for the downpours of the rain. When there is chaos, there is still time. When questions remain unanswered, there is the sky, awaiting your call. When there is existence, there's him, Death. We flew in the sky and he dropped into the lake of lies, and that's when I knew the truth: the gift of chaos is the heavenly realms. And so is the past. And then, there, I locked my eyes with him and, like a phoenix, my soul was greedy for freedom and him, the death of the mirror-less sky.

The present.

The future.

The memories.

The loss.

I was glancing sideways when my eyes caught you, I told to myself, “You
have your picks” you were so perfect like a classic portrait displayed in
a museum, a frail mirror revived at its subtlest; thus are driven
ravishing, a portrait lost in the sea.

That's when I found you, just someone I acknowledge. We stroll past each other, thought of
something, typical. Little did I realize, the man so stiff, when he sits wearing some thick eyeglasses; a strange passion, that's when I grasped, I will write you. And when I can't hit any key when I sing, in Minor D I run. You were a brooding light, a faint kiss of sweet melody ringing in my piano keys. When I sing, you sit there in silence and I speak the words and you listen to the tone.

For the first time, a man I know nothing at all, just a civil smile you put on to some pictures, I noticed you were 'something', seen. In nights where no stars appearing, when the moon was sheltering behind the mists, when the midnight so deep appeals bleaker than I expected — isn't it shameful that I figure out of how alluring that grin of yours, while I look at myself, and see,

that we will never cut across the same route, to reach through something remarkable? That I feel this electricity inside, while yours are just functioning?

The Infirmity of Life, I guess.

“Hey, look, the moon's beautiful tonight.” He said to the woman lying beside him.

By the lake, at two in the dawn. He flips the rock, and it docked in the water—creating an enormous sound to crush the ghostly silence, where they rest amid the fallen woods and the hidden lake.

He chuckled and turned to her side and smiled.

“You are such a beauty, Delilah.” He pinches her cheeks and scoured her silky black hair.

The fireflies that prowl around lit up the whole area. They wandered and buzzed into the quietness of the forest. The shadows of the blue lake mirrored the pastel of the moon.

It was such a captivating scene for them both.

But a tear escapes her lips, and he dried it with his palm. “You will be all right in time, Delilah.” He reassured her.

There she was, lying in silence. Eyes are cold and dead. He gazes from where Delilah was so engrossed in to—there he closed his eyelids; hoping the spirit would just drift and fade. She was in her bare feet, with blood splattered across her dress woven in a white long garment; a smile painted—loneliness was caught in a glimpse of her.
Shadowed by the blue lake—the moon's lighting out her face.

“Please, let me go.” She pleaded and disappeared.

He turned to his side and grasped her lifeless body—her bones are digging up the outside—her eyes are swollen and blood dried her lips.

His cracking voice was the only music the black allowed to play in the deafening cacophony of trees wavering—this is where he met Delilah, a beauty in the storm. But her time was short-lived—yet with joy.

He danced with her amid the buzzing fireflies and the lake's clear water, while the sirens beneath were singing for them.

“Now, you have discovered the elegance of the moon. I can now let you go.” He mourned in silence and pecked her on the forehead.

“Goodbye, Delilah. The moon's beautiful tonight.”

We were lying on the seaside
where shells clank and make music to our ears
and the ocean who calls unto me.

I leaned towards your way,
all I can look at was
stardust in your eyes —
even words couldn't justify.

Love was here beside me
hanging for another rising
the night is luminous
the ocean is whistling.

Waves, the soothing sound
that creates melodies, I hummed
and you strummed your guitar.

“The moon is fascinating,”
You said and I laughed,
your eyes twinkled
like sparks upon sparks
and I called you,
love.

We were both giggling
the echo of it was lulling.
The pieces I am finding
at last, it was now beside me.

“You know, I will always bring you here,”
You whispered
like you were so certain — it secured my wall
like it will never fall.

So, I was stuck with a smile — it was a fresh March
and our affection was like summer
it never ends until spring.

The ocean is calling
all we did was paint
another love story untold,
another beginning
that ends with you and me.

Another goodbye.

It was a night of April
where the sea knew every lie
you told and I was sitting by the seashore
alone.
The ocean keeps calling,
should I go with them?

It was the last week of April
where revelations were good
like a broken record
ringing in my ears —
I couldn't sing anymore.

I waited till May
but even shadows of you
couldn't be seen, the moon is brighter
that I reminisce your crooked smile
that I miss having by my side.

I could not calm the waves
I hummed our song
you were the missing piece
the sea is finding, where are you?

It was a fool of me
to stick around and linger
I hope for your presence
I even wish
to the falling star
I couldn't miss wishing you'd be here.

You can tell me everything
all the secrets
all the misery
all the past and the present
I'd still listen
to your melodies
coming from your guitar —
it keeps getting darker.


That I couldn't see the ocean
I couldn't hear its call — where are you?
The summer is almost over.

The ocean is calling me
into the wide and dark
mystery.
I am falling in its trap,
will you not come and save me?

The ocean, the moon, the starry night,
it was all I remember.

May.
I painted this last piece,
I peered around the room and saw you
observing such magnificent art.

I smiled,
it was the last memory of us, I even laugh
for I compared you to every piece
hanging around the room.
You told me,
"I'm different than the rest, even I don't stand out,"
you smiled and there,
the ocean called me to wake up.

To wake up
wake up.
Wake
Up.

Softly, she ventured into the violent night of May,

Where pitch-black winter soaked her bones.

The sea, full of teeth, bit and insisted as she stood there, unmoving.

It was full of music and empty promises; she let the vastness of the agonizing waves drown her rotting body.

The sharp smell of air reeked of bitter billet-doux.

It had been her three hundred sixty-five attempts to be silent; barefoot, she waited and waited and waited.

Under the moonlight, she appeared as a ghastly ghost.

For a moment, she wondered, “Only the wicked remember the sea’s harshness and stay”—a woman personified as storm, mirroring her rage.

She is a twisted soul; death sighs at the sight of her.

The moon exhausted its entire being. “She is full of herself,” he whispered into the dark, corrupted sea.

She imprinted the sands with her unnerving gravity—she walked, and walked, and walked,
Haunted by her visions and dreams, terrorizing the melancholic earth.

Months passed—it was now September.

She’s restless; all she could do was remember.

She kept bathing in the black sea, passionately driving herself to madness.

She kept being pulled and pulled and pulled,

Until survival was no longer an option—her hair slowly being grappled into the lake of fire.

Her last remaining thoughts were of long-forgotten, enchanting, sweet eyes of his.

She dreamed of him—those big, witchery eyes of his.


She remembered, and so the sea deciphered her yearning and pulled her in.

I'm not as soft as a swan gliding into the poet's lake. I'm not as graceful as a ballerina waltzing in the arena. I am not as calm as the trees attending to your whimsical needs. I am built on ruins; I am something that has been running for decades, and I still think about the house keys I abandoned near the forest; they open the portal to your house. It was my favorite.

I am full of words,
Rotten poetry,
Full of work,
Empty memory.

"I don't know what to write anymore," I whispered. I was a romantic maniac. In me were growing daisies and burnt coffees, orange juices and promised salvation.

It's a funny little detail; now, it's all mishaps and mishandled poetry.

Through the shallows and the shadows, I screamed in horror, and then I felt the mockery of longing.

My feet wandered into
the serene shoreline
while the strong waves
hushed my cacophonic mind —
I strummed my fingers and gripped
tightly of my conch.
While my lips brushed around
its spiral shell — as I whispered my wishes
and blow through,
suddenly an angel
flew by and swiveled —
his wings burning.

From the heavens, he falls
right through the deserted sea.
My naked feet began to push
its life towards him —
he lies on the sand and his wings burning through.
Silhouettes of him rang on my mind;
gashes of water fell
through my eyes —
and whilst even the silence
grieved for us.
His burning wings calmed the strong winds —
the winter sea began to calm its strident waves
as I let myself lie awake beside him.

I closed my eyes and the replicas
of myself flashed through like a
candescent wind —
and there I saw a woman
lying in the hospital bed.
The sun mirroring the artificial light
through the windowpane;
the man standing beside her
had his wings folded —
and his eyes cold as the winter
and the woman dying in her
tranquil sleep.

The trees had fallen its last leaves,
and the winter is coming at dawn.
The man covered my eyes and I was at the
winter sea again —
“Mona, you will die in winter.”

And I woke up.
It was September.

She has freckles like little eyes boring a hole into your soul when she looks at you. She has a face as clear as crystal that when you look at her, you can see your own reflection—mirrorless, empty, and reserved. When you press your lips against hers, a flood of poisonous schemes awaits you, and you'll be lost like Alice in Wonderland.

She's an important chess piece that cannot be easily moved; she's a queen, the ace, the king. A pawn may capture a queen, but she is also the king. Her throne reeks of gold and fortune, her mind flows with wisdom, and her body's attached like the goddess Aphrodite. She's the thunder in the rain. Her cries are a woe of revenge and power. Death can not capture a woman like her. She's Eve and she's Lilith. She's a spirit and she can be a snake—crawling with her reptile skin. Her eyes are as fierce shaped as the diamond's emerald and lastly, she's macabre surrealism that when you read her, her true self shows and pushes you to infinite possible dreams you can dream of. 

Avary is the bird of thunder. In her cage, she's a young soul duplicated to bring misfortune every time it rains in the spring of Casmorville.

I could never finish writing off your name, with your strawberry scent vibrating towards mine and your hooded eyes that covers the wrinkles and your cheek dampens when you crook a smile, I could never stop writing you.

Maybe I was just drawing a thin line with heaven and a tightrope with my eyes close and hell bent towards the unending loophole of my forsaking fantasies, I guess I might stay here. There was something about you that I cannot forsake nor repaint with foreign colors and another texture — you were as a majestic being in my lucid dream.

That even though I cannot recount my fingers one or two or five or ten, I can picture the deepening hole of your dimples whenever you give the world another unbreathable cheeky beam and I sulk here, waiting for another neon glow of that majestic world in my dreamlike prophetic future.

Something told me it was you. As I bear witness another beauty in the realm of my alternative home, maybe then, peering at the sky while I was on a tightrope is worth every penny of sleep and drowsiness gulping another 90's wine.

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?

Light,
The light from above has bestowed upon me the urge to dance, despite it all, all, all. A spark has spread a little fire—the music never stopped, despite it all.  

Affection,
Facing slowly—affection all over the floor. Summer has not started yet, but there is heat, devotion, warmth in absence. I nod to the sun. I turn towards the dappled, bronzed skin of mine.

Jazz,
There is something ferocious living inside this four-cornered apartment, where the absence of childhood has taken half my life—but there are flowers, flowers in my head. Slowly dancing in the whiskers of the afternoon—velvety, yes, velvety notes striking the rhythm of my body. Swaying, swaying, almost lost in the murmur of the piano—the saxophone aggravates the thrill in my bones. I look up at the ceiling; colors start to swirl even more. Strings spill like liquid—smooth and endless, more and more. Conversing here and there, I am alive again.  

“Turn your face towards the sun,” they say. I dreamed of my childhood, and the heat of the sun felt like slow jazz in the afternoon.

You hit me like a wave. I drifted away, coming into the shore, and lied there with nothing but my naked eyes; the sun covered my cold, barren body. Radiating sunshine and weakness as the sea called over me, you traipsed and towered over my sight, blinding me with your ivory skin lit as the match fired the sky.
 
The waves in the sea squished me in like a soft linen blanket, wrapping me all over like the comfort of a mother. My hands were trembling as you stood there unmoving, and the melodies and blasphemous beats almost dug me out of my ears; I couldn’t even do anything. You were there like an angel lost in his epiphany. It was as if a goddess were in front of you; your eyes spoke as you became a slave to your own wrath, worshipping what was in front of you. You laid your eyes on me like I was some kind of song you could not decipher.
 
You stood there, solving the creeps and mysteries and finishing the last verse of a poem you will never read again. You hit me like a wave, and I drifted away, hoarding memories left astray. You were there, godlike and lost, and even the sun loathed your fire. You burn like a match, your skin a stain of crimson—of sunshine and weakness. You called me, but I did not answer.
 
It was cold, and I loathed it. Perhaps it was the month of October where the enigmas of night lay open, and achingly, my flesh was found in humiliation. I continued to bleed, on and on.

We saved the world. We threw the last bomb into the crowds of rotting bodies and decaying brains. We crossed one final street and shut the gates behind us. We were safe. Or so I thought.

We celebrated—a fleeting, fragile moment of peace. Amid the laughter and relief, all I could do was watch him. He was in the center of it all, embracing everyone who had gathered around him. Then, I saw it—a trickle of dark liquid seeping from his jacket.  

My heart stopped. My joy shattered into panic, and my lips quivered as I whispered in fear. The world has already been burned, and yet—burned even more as my body slowly shaken in agony.

“No. That can’t be. Oh God, no—please!”  

I ran to him, my hands trembling as I lifted his jacket. The truth was undeniable. It was there all along. He had been bitten.  

I froze, panic gripping my chest. I choked until I could not breathe anymore.

He didn’t speak a word. He didn’t have to. His eyes met mine, and I saw everything. He knew. He had known all along. He had insisted we go to Churchill Street first, pushing through the pain, enduring the wounds inflicted into his tired body. He wanted to make sure we were somewhere safe before it all happens. Somewhere where the night isn’t a nightmare
—and then turn into one of those lowly rotting bodies we used to aim our guns with.

“How dare you, Sid!” I choked on the words as tears streamed down my face. Before I could say more, he collapsed to the ground.  

“Can you sing me my favorite song?” he whispered, his voice soft and strained.  

I opened my mouth to protest, to beg, but his pleading gaze stopped me. I nodded, holding back sobs, and began.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy  
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy”

As I sang, he reached into his pocket and handed me a pair of eyeglasses I had been wanting for so long. They weren’t my usual prescription, but I took them, holding them to my chest as if they were a piece of him.  

I cupped his face and pressed my lips to his, tears mingling with our fleeting touch. Then I lay beside him on the cold ground, holding him close as I finished the song.

“Goodnight, Sid,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “See you in the morning.”  

He smiled, content, and mouthed the three words we used to say to each other before every battle.  

“Sleep now, my beautiful boy,” I said, my voice trembling with sorrow. I kissed his forehead and whispered a final prayer for him as his eyes slowly closed.

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.

The slit between the roof and the abandoned house gets me—the moon drowns in his own mystical clouds, wavering and so full of light.

I squint my eyes as the moon hides his presence from me. Almost knowing I had captured it with my own eyes and the grey clouds scattered like waves, consuming my breath and taking it away.

He knows it still haunts me from time to time and he gave his best to give me an embrace—even when my very own existence is running cold and dry and my breath thickens with the mist of unwavering thoughts coming from the night and the stars twinkle at the sight of people looking at them—like a mirrorball entertaining strangers from the club and they shine in their spot. Even when I close my eyes, the moon peaks in its stillness. All the poets used him as their muse, radiating this mellow one could think of when the sun sleeps in her slumber. The poets had perfectly described him in thousands of words and painted him over the mural where I can see him directly and the strangeness of him calms the raging waters in me.

Even when peace is quite chaotic and chaos is peaceful, a trap between the slit on the roof and the abandoned house, squinting my eyes as the moon hides his presence from me. And she haunts me as the sun begins to show herself in ways I am blinded by her light.

In some ways, she shines even when it is night.
In a way, she looks over the moon when he wakes up from his slumber.
In a way, the stars and clouds enveloped her with the warmness of their breath.
In some ways, I couldn’t look at her for too long.
In some ways, I am silenced by her beauty.

The night has begun —
she dashed into the crest
of the woods
where the branches would clank together,
forming an echo of suspiciousness —
silence cannot be suppressed.

Through the drifting moon — the stars tracking her every stride
into the broad peak of the unknown,
somehow she can inhale in the black.

“Hello, which pathway will you pick up?
Can I tour with you?

She cried out.

“I don't want to be alone.”

The trees floated on the flicker of the breeze — granting her the direction
that she desires — somehow,
she realizes she is not alone.

When they leave a mark,
she grew —
she rose out of grief;
even outgrew some hidden scars,
find some glorious jams — out of scars, she later discovered, a shady gem.

When they leave a mark,
she grew —
she bred out of bare sounds;
she then understood the relevance
of empty promises — its words and its absence
the mere thought that grows with it.

She then leaves a scar;
some strain,
some courses of her daily life — some parts of her,
even when she did not become a part of theirs.

She then rose —
when they leave a mark.

The sky holds its truth — as I stomped my feet
and let my cold eyes burn
into the windowpane
I realized,
they have my mysteries.

Shadows were occurring through,
conscious of my becoming —
demons were shrieking,
“Hail! Laud be to the desert god!”
I couldn't keep up anymore.

Dusts were stirring;
spider's web untangling,
they have my secrets.

Yet they stood hushed.

I did it again, did I?
All my sins showing
like a clog stink
I perceive,
the shadows screamed,
“Laud be to the desert god.”

Her face formed from the wetness of my sins,
showing me
of whom I have:
grow into and to be gone.

Hail you, hail you.

The windowpane
drew me back
to its torture,
begone now,
for I have descended from grace.

I am now a fallen angel.
“Begone now, hail you.”
They cried.

The sky holds its truth — all my secrets been dropped long,
but since then, they howled,
resurfaced from the deep hole.

I am frightened.
Begone now,
begone.