The cold-ridden skin..
Much sun than the other days.
An old perfume of unknwon vines..
Burns her China eyes.
Her hands in fear makes no move in that queer noon.
Her husbands off to the mines..
That weary face in stains,
when in rage not weary again.
However she misses a count.
The count of the other boy she had.
A son so rare with small soft hair..
His chase was never destined anywhere..
The mother with the blurred eyes..
Frowned at the thought of his broken neck..
The dreadful water lilies..never gave him back.
There lied a distant nightmare upon the railway bridge..
Not spared.

The stream below the with moss despair.
His mother stares.

Her Chinese son reminds her..
Her very own William's 'Lucy'.

A stream passes..
Chemicals pass by..
And a Chinese son's paper boat..
Chants the cries.
The distant son's cries.

People sing by..
Another Chinese day!

Mirror on a plain holy wall.
Hello insignificance, his pleasured meet can watch us together now..
The territory thus claimed and framed..
The worker's hands much stained with age..
And his misty forest mind at rest.
Shivered and stopped at a gallant his rise..
Her hands and hair like the frost outside..
Moves in nature at the wind's swing.
The willows swing.
I stand under the hanging dress..
Her face stooped low but,
his face pushed high.
That ravaging battle face hung from the ceiling.
The son watches his mother..hung from that roof in that mirror.
Dies.

He watched his tears in the mirror role down..
the other boy's eyes.

Oh..his mother is dead too!

i am not your blooming flower
i don't belong in your
garden kingdom populated
by perennials and ruled by
thorn stemmed rose bushes
where you go
to seek solace and discover
the bursting lightness of
that sensuous pain when
blood erupts from that
thin line where
the white fatty layer threatens
to spill out into the world
and stain your white carnations.

and i never promised you
that it would be pretty
and that one day you would be
able to look at those sensationless slices
and see more than just
an act of scarification
that i asked for
that i endured
but the physical embodiment of
that internal scream that
bounces off the sides of my chest
and shatters the crystalline lattice
that protects my dispassionate heart
from your touch
as soft as the downy feathers
of the spring's children
emerging from their
incubator eggs to
greet the world where they
will fall before they fly
and i will impale myself on
the pyre of their sacrifice.