I’m holding my empty Organs

like holding a bowl never filled

& waiting for Moon

to stamp on my porcelain Stomach.

There will be a lark

that splits open my Heart

to build a Nest out of it

Clouds burn out crimson wounds in the Sky.

Birds that fetch words back to drown the Ocean

Gush out of all my joints.

You can’t handle the truth
your skin as soft as a breath, a lie
if you wake up on the wrong side of your secret
and get lost on the orbit of fear, surrounding your delicate membrane
if you keep plunging yourself into a cold container
if you mix up refugee with shelter, in a regime made of memories
where your heart lies, and you grow redder each day

My life so easily fogs, Godot,

Our speech made of young seasons

Still cannot persuade any of the flowers.

All those who wither are spelling out a crimson winter.

Red: reminds me of snow;

Of those bloods which are similar yet opposite.

Every snowflake that falls onto a heart

Becomes a birthmark. Beside the fireplace, I stand

& write, like a heart falling vertically on a winter night.

Then it snows with a greater tempo, snowstorm

Is the syntax that I like more.

Until the snow-ish ring grows into my

Finger joint. (As white as a touch: whitens

Into a bunch of names so-much-alike-flowers.)

I pronounce it as river as snow as melting riverbanks flushed by tears.
I pronounce it as storms as thick black clouds covering as flocks of thousands crows darkness and light surging underneath.
I pronounce it as freedom as goodness as discomfort as chaos as passion as pain as hope as sin as all irreversible wanting burning scarletly.
I pronounce it as knives as bullets as toxins as cures so much alike to drugs as blades bounded with healings.

I witness street lamps skinny as pens.

The moon is as pale as draft paper –

I pray. More novel-less nights

Beckons. The key board of typewriters

Are made of small puddles of rain

Flowers are my most sincere

Memoir for March.

Outside of the world’s house

Waiting for my life

To get published.

Workshopped nightmares:

Roots howl in the reduction of light.