Wait,

When the weary men in the skeletal park
Play their old downpour,
we shall look for the sun to bid our sins
                 A sincere hello we’d forgotten.

Wash your hand before you wave it,
                                 and now look up.

I remember how the fingers of the tree there
                                Used to drown along
                                In the lake above the park
                                For you alone.

They were catching dreams,
              don't worry.

And you remember how those fingers
                            Used to draw red line
                            In the lake beneath the park
                            Do you not?

They were waiting for dreams,
              don't worry.

But yesterday,
       You cheered for their departure;

And today,
       You weep for their absence.

And finally the next,
       You seek for their replacement;

       drifting all the way
       To the lake beneath the park.

Let me just tell you a thing loud and clear:
       If you ever want to dig alone to the bottom of the lake;
       Just remember,

      that whenever I slumber in this puddle that lacks of blood
      The moon on the lake above followed me always to bed
      And as I lie, looking up for the sun
      It simply slandered my confounded elegy.

That is why in this skeletal park of streams and wires
I keep trying to tip my hat and bid farewell
         Till the sun eventually goes down and sleep next to me
         So that along with my smile, it would lastly grin my sins

But what if my fingers drowned all along in tipping my sins?
                                                 What would the lake have for me,
           and what would the men play above the grinning sun?

                                I wonder if all the sea was all a scene
                               They played during my silent ******.
                                I wonder if all the scene was all a sin
                                The sun conjured between my fingers.

But what if my fingers drowned all along in bidding farewell?
                   Just forget what I said, and don't take it to the heart.
                   They were not looking for light, anyway.
                   They were looking for you.

That is why I want you to speak of hands
                              And count fingers instead of hope;
                              so that you would
                              Come and get mine
                              Along the red lines
                              of sinful ****** scene
                              In the lake beneath this skeletal park.

When the days get darker,
let them dim our thoughts

With contemplation of loathe,
dancing macabre

Skeletons pour down wax and slowly cackle
at the sight of human’s craving,
their salvation
Towards untangled
self-torture-bound heartache.

Just like the dripping pain in the stomach that would
Gradually rip and bleed forever more.
Or the stinging needles in the eyes
To prevent us from believing.

We are composed of guilt and shame
Melted by the gluttonous fire of our own
That we ignored,
pretending as if it was crumbs
From our demented lunch as we
Step on our pride,
refusing to acknowledge
Our satisfaction and sweat reflected there.

If life is a candle still, crowned with black flare
Inject me with the stranded white wax
So I could form myself back to my righteous shape.

And I would then burn bright
A swaying blaze of agony.

On my gleaming way home
Amidst the fading waves of visions
I got stranded in so many rooms
Of corridors I stepped on purpose
For once I was welcomed by
A handless artist
Who gave me a treat of flowers and desire
Faded by his fire
His windows were pages old
And he lived with a light he incinerated
And after I asked for a way
I was addressed to another door
A windowless room dwelt by
A verseless poet, who walks upon a string
Adorned as a necklace to turn his fate
He told me directions completed
With a tea-time set of apocalyptic nursery rhymes
Where he adored, lived, and longed to cradle
Before I went off he sent me to a philosopher next door
Who came just an age ago
She, as he said, feeds on human thoughts and sophisticated flesh
Crave unfathomable waves of loves she can control
Her ceilings as I saw was soaring up
To unlimited depth of nonexistent heaven
And humorous hell
Her demon was whole yet none
And her providence resides in her
She dwells for a short course in the clock
To find a way home as I am
Then sent me off to
A boy from the burnt-down marching band
Who talked of God, ancient lords, and prayers old
But never thought nor heed the tales
But his melodic fingers were of life and death
The serenade and the sonnets, to the worldly joy of torment and sachars
He was the friend of a wax statue overgrown by candles
Who would burn down a thousand more to lit the hearts
Of the lost and the blind
He contradicted the black-ash boy’s tales
Yet preach some of it to ease his flames
Truth be told or truth be sought
His candles and the dim little flickers
Did much to illuminate my half-consumed soul
And thus he took me to the exit door
And guided me home through the fragile night
But as I stepped further, none would heed my farewell so
In this life of considerable tears
I shall bid no farewell and I shall write my tales
Of truth be told of truth be sought

The postman boy
Has gotten weary of the stories told
Wrongly by dear Oblivia on the yards
Every morning.
The postman boy comes for
The warm-hearted letters of distance sons
But on his hands are letters of slander and
coalition he did not fathom.

To the wound playing the piano
Before the sunset of mid April
        I hereby declare my gratitude
For all the raindrops that fall
According to the tune of your solitude.

Your medley was raising flowers,
                                catching time,
                               trying to make sound
Of grandfather’s old clock
                                which still tells the tale
Of the lady in green
                                While casting off,
                                painting shadows
For the distance braided by endless waltz

To the freezing lake of the looking glass,
Where I carved the codes and messages,
        I hereby declare my gratitude,
                                     and vows,
for the blue vinyl which sings out
The equinox’s most favored scarlet eyes.

To the afternoon tomb where we wandered
To the vines tangling on your dancing fingers
               For all the tears in a song I do not fathom
               And the abyss where we fell but never land
                                               Here I send you a poem of gracious longing

I

Waiting for my clock to break an arm
I wonder why there are two moons
In the sky on the mirror above the ground
I stroll upon in the dark dark night
But who would listen to my footsteps
That contradict their own resonation
For I always walk
In sanity

II

How do we talk
And how do we walk?
Like innocence drowned in chalk
Or just abhorrence painted black?
Why does the mirror shatter?
It is because of beauty,
or a heart blackdusted, like this—
like   this
like   this
like   this
like   this
like   this
like
         this
like
         this
like
         this
like
         this
like  this
        dislike

III

Following your eyes and their dauntless form
I beat the tears out of the moon
In the bog where we used to mourn
For deceased children whose hearts shone bright
But who would weep along to us
Whose sirens live alone in contradiction
For we always talk
In sanity

I talked to the fire and the ashes
I brought last night upon the marshes;
they were burning and dusting
Passions and longing—
For they could not be as one
No matter how much they wanted to;

the fire kills,
The ashes bleed
All for themselves
Because they could not do it
On their own.

My fire hated wound and hated pain
Only if it is for the ashes and ashes alone
And also the grasses in the garden of the marshes.

Yes, fire is warming and calming to the core,
but is it for the ashes dropped to blown?

And for me, to make it clear:
The ashes were not ******* you get
After you allegedly burn a precious wood,
or a precious bone, of course.

The ashes were conjured  
Of memories you could not recall—
Every single shards of wood
Every singe string of gloom
Incinerated only to light your way
To light your world.

Who said that ashes worth nothing in this colored world?
Who dare say that ashes could only humiliate?

Because for us
It is the most sincere form
Of memories sacrificed.

And if the stars are too far away
We might as well burn
And be the ashes down the ground—
Because for us
The ashes are the most sincere form
Of stars deep dark below.

Why would you grab a star too far
When i’m not
So far away from you?

Like the night and the shadow within
When the fire burns
Upon the old marshes of memories.

And so, the fire and the ashes that I brought upon
Simply whispered;

Don’t let the dream of the moon upstairs
Blind you to your heart
For the flickering stars above,
when you can simply burn rocks
Burn anything
to create your own stars.