No longer pursuing non-existence,
yet I remain a faultline.
In the art of ripping apart -
the sea never heals..
....
The earth might as well be mine,
in the blink of an eye.
Be beautiful.
Wading,
in a pond of lotus flowers
profuse as virgins.
A stark white rainbow
spans through pregnant clouds,
and the vault of heaven
lies at my fingertips..
in the form of a breath.
A breath,
born above wind..
above beauty.
Making dark holes the
sound of laughter..
And broken scripts,
the colour of bliss..
Be wonderful.
Singing cicada wings,
with once ears full of suffering,
now walking from lotus to lotus.
My black blood has become
oblivious
to good
or bad
fortune.
Forgetful of unidentified faces,
malicious paths
and hidden motives.
Amidst the returning ghosts,
betwixt the acrid stench,
Eupnea blinds..
never again to savor
the funereal air of life.
Be divine.
A familiar coastline
becomes my clear vision
as the world ebbs away
at his highest point.
Pulsating from my abdomen,
weighing in on my chest,
he avalanches years..
stretches out brilliance..
and makes a hyperaemic eardrum
a waterfall.
Crawling through pairs of
charred legs,
drunks behind curtains,
and hearts full of maggots...
yearning for the green blood
that is brightness.
Be elegant....
When heaven and earth pass away,
only his word shall stay.
He is a haven rest.
A sheltering rock.
My hiding place.
For runners steadfast in the race;
I, toiling for a little space,
have my light through faith when sights grow dim..
all I have to offer
is my world to him.
....
A feeble world cowers to listen
as Eupnea brushstrokes the
depths of my jagged seabed.
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