#hue - Hello Poetry

a bloom not I sniff on its wax yet soap in its name. Is chime an echo shuttling between shores clenched and surfs wrinkled? Forthcoming. Impending. Violating. Could thou help me to say this? that I was in out of my depth. Over-night granola, Mixed-berry fizz, Planet-Traveler hues. Could thou let me shelve vacancy? that I’d be sobbing for its mess. Signature Choco cake named here sole with latte all around globe some taste brewed here sole. How hot and heavy and hazy this existence savors. But— there is Thank you, the simple words that turns us into lamplighters who walk each other home, through the night never seems to end fluxing, always, always. after all. before all. A beam of apathy. Hithernay I lapse in the liquid fear of drifting afar from all flowed through me, a terrifying truth that strikes, falters, and aches. On shaft of daylight I look fine but look behind my eyes, everything is new until it’s old. An osmosis of remembrance wafts across the lake frozen I gazed tears streaming down its face and was told: every metamorphosis a co-passenger brought you continues the voyage with you on behalf of him. Would I get over it? Anon I find the galactic city model of the mind too cold to defy as I expend three minutes hesitating shall I do it or not that could be done within the three minutes so it’s left undone, with an ongoing groan. I yearn for rationality is too spiny and messy and illusory like a broadcast of self-deed that never ever pitch a well guess. But— nothing come decipherable until I seek to return with hands empty of dictions indecipherable. I love the debris of word that I don’t understand, that I build brick by brick. Euphoria stumbles in what is and what isn’t here. Chimeric. This time, at ease I walk into the place scrawled by unfamiliarity of all kinds, giddy, amorphous, variegated, not without my muse. Hovering, the Wayfinder exhales an attuning overture, an astringent taste of cacophony. “Free is the feeling they can’t take from thee.” a rustle not I shivered in yet took a leap towards. Through the bullet-spiked walls of unseen wars analogy hums a thousand suns as warriors bury a thousand letters.

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Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC

EvelynYiningChen

Blue Wind Chime

a bloom not I sniff on its wax yet soap in its name. Is chime an echo shuttling between shores clenched and surfs wrinkled? Forthcoming. Impending. Violating. Could thou help me to say this? that I was in out of my depth. Over-night granola, Mixed-berry fizz, Planet-Traveler hues. Could thou let me shelve vacancy? that I’d be sobbing for its mess. Signature Choco cake named here sole with latte all around globe some taste brewed here sole. How hot and heavy and hazy this existence savors. But— there is Thank you, the simple words that turns us into lamplighters who walk each other home, through the night never seems to end fluxing, always, always. after all. before all. A beam of apathy. Hithernay I lapse in the liquid fear of drifting afar from all flowed through me, a terrifying truth that strikes, falters, and aches. On shaft of daylight I look fine but look behind my eyes, everything is new until it’s old. An osmosis of remembrance wafts across the lake frozen I gazed tears streaming down its face and was told: every metamorphosis a co-passenger brought you continues the voyage with you on behalf of him. Would I get over it? Anon I find the galactic city model of the mind too cold to defy as I expend three minutes hesitating shall I do it or not that could be done within the three minutes so it’s left undone, with an ongoing groan. I yearn for rationality is too spiny and messy and illusory like a broadcast of self-deed that never ever pitch a well guess. But— nothing come decipherable until I seek to return with hands empty of dictions indecipherable. I love the debris of word that I don’t understand, that I build brick by brick. Euphoria stumbles in what is and what isn’t here. Chimeric. This time, at ease I walk into the place scrawled by unfamiliarity of all kinds, giddy, amorphous, variegated, not without my muse. Hovering, the Wayfinder exhales an attuning overture, an astringent taste of cacophony. “Free is the feeling they can’t take from thee.” a rustle not I shivered in yet took a leap towards. Through the bullet-spiked walls of unseen wars analogy hums a thousand suns as warriors bury a thousand letters.