I don't spar with your half-truths any longer.
I don't wade into those spicy justifications for marginal behavior.
I've accepted it as the fabric of you.
I need to flee this chamber of carnage.
Some fancy to call it your heart.
They were impoverished.
Boys were always more cherished.
So, the birth of a girl did not bring smiles.
What a girl did bring were many options.
All of them heart-twisting and desperate.
To lay the babe on a trash heap outside of town
seemed cold and harsh, they reasoned.
Wild beasts might painfully finish her off.
Tossing her to the frothy fangs of the Yangtze,
she might get battered into painful death.
They thought about putting a hand over her little mouth
but neither had the heart to do such a thing.
They could gently place her in the chamber pot and seal off the top.
At the very least, it would be dark and quiet.
But any pot would forever be a constant reminder.
They finally decided, like millions before, to place her in a basket.
Perched high in the arms of a tree.
Her last day or two would be spent amidst birdsong.
Gently kneading her soul into prayer wheels.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Unheralded
sleep steals into
my chamber
lowers its curtain before my mind
gently strokes my eyelids
overtakes
~ underwhelms
The little white house
one hollow, pale May
gapes wide dark bowels
devours a prized race.
Screams in the black
tunes and sweet song.
Hair to power looms
Last waltz of souls
in carbon streaked flames.
the orchid lamp burns low against the screen of jade
a silver hairpin pierces the frozen musk
kingfisher quilt lies undone
eaglewood breathes unrisen dusk
dripping copper drains last watch
bronze worn where our first shadows seamed
morning mirror broken bride
embroidered sash unlaces on the hearthstone
the spring silkworm spun its chamber shut
silk wound against a bridal drum untouched
red wax sealed—spent wick weeps into the stele
beside the moonlit sill the brush-knife cleaves the charred core
the seal breaks at midnight
a single scent of eaglewood rises
Kunlun incense
rain on Kunlun has fallen for thirty years
water settles Kunlun-hore
the rain not yet wet
a po-am
a cycle-logical
word chamber
len
Inside the room
where everything is too still
as if even air has agreed to behave
She stands in green,
deep weighted,
deliberate
like a thought that has been
stitched into fabric
so it cannot escape its own meaning
He stands across from her,
not touching,
not moving toward or away,
as if distance has been arranged
with crescent care
and called love
Above them, a chandelier holds itself
like a paused sangria sun
its empty candles
insisting on presence
without giving light
A small dog watches from the floor,
simple and certain,
as if loyalty is just another object in the room
that no one questions
And then there is the mirror
I do not notice it at first
the way you do not notice being watched
until you already are
In it, the room folds inward
The couple repeats itself
in miniature truth
And behind them someone stands
I realize then
it is not only a portrait
It is a record of witnessing
And I am not outside it
I am already in the glass
Our thoughts are but the stone the quarry yields,
Which, rough and cold, do wait the hand of art;
Like ancient rock from untamed, barren fields,
They hold no form, nor yet a conscious heart.
The mind, a mason, takes these common bits,
And with a plan no mortal eye hath seen,
By hammer-stroke and measured toil, permits
A structure rising, glorious and keen.
Each arching line, a metered verse aligns,
A buttress strong where logic’s weight is laid,
And through the glass, where coloured light now shines,
The soul’s intent in artistry, displayed.
So in this verse, a fleeting, built design,
The artificial and the human join.
Red ink
bleeds
through
tissue walls
each ventricle
a room
I've carved
by beating.
In chambers of the mind, we store each day,
Each lesson wrapped in wonder, fear, or joy.
What matters most will never fade away.
The smell of chalk, the light at morning's ray,
First bicycle, first book, beloved toy
In chambers of the mind, we store each day.
Not facts alone, but how they came to stay:
The teacher's smile, the moment of deploy
What matters most will never fade away.
Through neural corridors, memories replay,
Some bright as copper, some we can't employ.
In chambers of the mind, we store each day.
The brain selects what's worthy of display:
Love, laughter, fear, emotions that employ
What matters most will never fade away.
So when we teach, we must find ways to weigh
Not just content, but context to enjoy.
In chambers of the mind, we store each day,
What matters most will never fade away.
We laid our breath
in the cold dish of morning
not to warm it,
but to watch it vanish.
The way ghosts do.
You struck the match inside me
with a tremor,
like forgiveness
forgot to be kind.
I was not born for light.
I was spilled
like ink across your undone name,
every letter twitching
like a fish on the wrong side of water.
You came in with no skin,
I gave you mine.
You left with it,
stitched to your memory
like a farewell garment.
Now I wander these ribbed corridors,
each echo a footstep
I never took.
Not dead.
Not quite.
Just learning
the shape of love
in an afterlife we invented.
If you'd like the next one,
our merged lament in even darker hues
I am ready. Just say,
descend.
the bones are the first to know,
they hum a low dirge,
like a bass line in a dying bar,
deep under the skin’s slow retreat.
blood stumbles in the corridors,
loses its way in the veins,
tries to remember where it used to go.
the heart?
it forgets the beat,
like a drunk forgetting the name
of the woman he once begged for.
lungs collapse like cheap umbrellas,
breath rattles in
like pennies in a tin cup—
a wheeze, a whisper,
then nothing but
a waiting room silence.
and the soul,
if there is one,
it slips out the back
like it owes them all back rent.
whispers faint traverse
cobblestones… a continent...
echoing blood-red
So, the glistening aim noticeably passes by,
So, the dangerous motion formidably goes by,
So, the unknown one remains unknown for the time being,
So, one is ahead of the petty singing.
The one and only is good-natured and well-behaved,
He is favoured and well-blessed.
Though the great Guide is sacrificed, done and dusted,
The honest being is fit, fine, and well-crafted.
The physical existence is going to be dealt with,
The mirrored organizations are going to vote for the myth.
The glass is going to be blurred by its connotations,
The pure man is defined by his situations.
The window is becoming larger day by day,
The commentators are solitary soldiers in their own way.
The perception is becoming blinded,
The light is the only lie that is provided.
Here, the perfect human is the representative of his species,
Here, he has grown up with his lengthy speeches.
Here, he is no longer unknown or unfeasible to catch,
And therefore, he has everything else to match.
Dark fantasies ride glistening moonbeams through my chamber window.
They dance their strange ballet on cobwebs in the flickering candlelight,
before they abide among the dusty tomes.
The tapestries strain to muffle the sound of my breathing,
and the frantic scratching of my quill across the dry parchment.
The moon slowly retreats behind thick clouds,
and the moonbeams are pierced by raindrops until they fade.
The raindrops do their melancholy waltz on the sill,
as lightning drives the dark from every corner of my chamber.
I smile as the thunder awakens something deep within my soul.
Somewhere outside my chamber door, a heavy chain drags the floor.
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