The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright
Hub of its joy: serving me
It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing
My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother
My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo
It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright
Hub of its joy: serving me
It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing
My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother
My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo
It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here
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