My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend

My pen I never strayed
My lungs I do disdained
My legs not rightly placed
My hands, beyond tangled

This is just some words about
The ethereal wandering spine:
Made of hard candled wood
To be laid cold on the lane

The ghost of it, I dare say, wandered around
Spoken of shame and of the nomads
And in silence, it sew the raging sea
Into yarns of distraught constellation
All in this ill world, not above

The spine was of rage and of distress
Wished forever to stop standing still
And forever more, laid to rest
As broken bones, as thousand glasses
To be unnoticed and blend as well

Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt

To blend means to fade away
And to fade means to accept
Annihilation and memories that may
Dangle from the tip of your bones

Why would you
Or the spine
Take it for granted,
wish it to be true?

Truth be told;
a spine helps you to stand still
Aside from your legs and your partial heart

Imagine;
if it wander aimlessly
Where would you belong,
and where would you stand?

But still the spine wanders around
To reign upright on its own
Then decorate beauty of its own
Oh, and perhaps, again
Blend in as well as to fade away

Away
Away
Away
From you

From:

Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt—
And could not stay

Look at your spine
Which you can’t see,
why are you so sure
That it is there?

Look at the spines
On your surrounding:
Lampposts
Broomsticks
Electric poles
Candles
Pillars

Look at the spines
That stand on their own
Just a single stick
And nothing more.

Believed to be incapable
Wished to be broken shards
Ended up standing still
For eternity, for darkness beyond

And what are you
Without them?
Just a lump of flesh
A fabricated skin
An empty will
And nothing more

Living in
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten,
haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt.

And what are we,
without them?
Just dark vessels
And distraught veins.

My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend.

The well I dive in is shallow and dark
And I seem to get nowhere after I embarked
So I drink the ink and fill in the blank
Pouring up from the bottom of the well
The bricks they made were corroding bells
And a tale of prejudice they always tell
Oh, how they depict the pain and gain
We get after being silently ******
And while diving in well I do then reign
Your kingdom of loathe of poem and darts
Causing chaos upon writing the lost hearts out
Corrupt the walls by eating your heart out
Drown, drown, deep down in my black romance
Of the kingdom within never laid to rest
Where I can write as I please and tell as I please
And set fire to the war you flickered in peace

Would you like to talk about
The winding water
And its sprouting light?

Yes,

The one you can see at night
From the soup parlor by the river
That serves memories, carved inside
A polished mirrored platter
Which made the boys all bright
And washed them saner
Along its tide of deluded truth

Come,
Would you like to talk about
The winding water?

The home for a thousand soul
All wrapped up, though foul
In a confounded streaming wire
And there, strayed the traveler
For a good four-hundred-year old
With his face down, and stories untold

Would you like to talk about
The sprouting light?
From the lanterns hung
To adorn the tide long
From the flowers of the head
Wilted and and still drowned
By the name of the lil moon’s
All dead hopes

Talking about the winding water
And its sprouting light
The old traveller
And the years has passed,
our little moon killed itself
Just to know that light
Eventually looked beautiful
Shrouded in darkness

Say now,
All my darling—

Why would you talk about
The winding water
And its sprouting light?
Why romanticize a world
Dull and weary?

Because beauty is made up,
and we live for beauty?
Or because we live in beauty,
and life is made up?

Impersonating the withering time spent in vacant prisons
None would heed the grief of the comatose televisions,
Seething silence, and things crack to pollute proceeding eyes
Of fishnet and waves conjured in the restful realms

My love for daydream is as much as nightmare
Neither it is in the day nor after horrid nightfalls
It is better to dream of horror than to dream of none
And to lavish the physique in mental salvation

In our daydream we still wander around
Chasing apostles and romance of ancient times
As for the dark dream in our mundane rest
Never get us to the eluding tide of winfer fire
Not even the embalmed hail of summer’s sweet liver

Of course, we know the pleasure of staying the night and burning shadows
Temperate, just like those faithful moments before we drown
Some might enjoy its darkness as it falls out of grace
Like after halos are dimmed, those are the reason the stars descend

Even the giddy stars would at some point come to a rest
Even if you have the power to shine as bright ever after
Please save ourselves from impersonating immortals

I say;

The drifting rain dissolves sea salt
Turning tears into dangled monsoon
Under the bleak ballad of dying dawn
Where I long for heat unbroken

You say;

The drifting rain drenches my tiptoe
Witching smiles into deranged equinox
Upon the downpour of ancient daybreak
Where I pray for old snow long sunk

All was as if the days faded
And morphed into younger sunset
It was as if mercy was drained
And no one preach as desired

The downpour stench though remains constant
Of rotting perfume of the rouge graphite
You drowsily drip from dowsing fingers, they lit
Into pages of burning, dancing melodious lads

As will, you may keep those imageries for you
And give up old stories as my slumber lyre
Whether it is about the burnt down marching boy
Or the bloodstained pianist from our ancient joy

For the bleak heart aesthetic
has affected a new kind of love
And the bleak heart aesthetic
would never let you feel so certain

So please keep your drifting rain of strings
During the downpour of the deranged equinox
When the snow goes black and slowly sunk
Into pages of firespit melodious lads