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We are experiencing all the course of beauty;
My heart has handwriting hasty
And accurate wording
A copy of midnight is as thin as a copy of diary
– – Recalled the morning when I was born
The womb of sky unified my mother’s abdomen
So snow descended
Since then my name
Has had an extra pure white reference page
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A lemon from north,
sour tropic, dormant lava juice,
not salty enough to rhyme with tears.
At a kiss of a blade,
it erupts. Liquid universe surging
within, galaxies, nebulas,
Three seeds emerge from the debris
of the explosion. Ellipsis
that sprout, that track the punctuations of a cosmic:
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Wake up
with dry skin
& wet heart.
It’s hard to sleep
with thunder tears.
Moon melts
into a drop of tear
– salty darkness.
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We generated kites of every star color
In this era depleted of skies.
Even all the clean clouds are blinded
As long as we could be healed
By moonily drizzles, we are still young
With wrinkles upon slightly windy face.
My messages are resilient and concrete,
Delivering to you via shooting stars
Owning names and origins itchy.
Mutually we possessed
Tears wiping your rooftops clean.
So when the night is hard enough,
I allow myself to resume in you
I pulse and pause with stars
Being my rhetorical question
And mountains persevered in memories
My deepest and longest anecdote.
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Now I’m going to tell you that butterflies are complex.
The hint of wings is complex.
The pollination of spring is complex.
Gliding with a soul is complex.
Colorless wings are complex.
Colorless is complex.
Crossing through a sustainable blue is complex.
B being the second letter in the alphabet is complex.
Fly being a word is complex.
Butterflies existing in language is complex.
Here’s the final word:
A butterfly
Is.
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A scarlet planet resides
In my flesh – so I am unprepared
To be covered.
I grow to be a habitat of the hidden.
Here I sit,
Scrapbooking the boundaries
Of flames into my orbit.
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Autumn applause broke
Into a sunset of sparrows;
I forgot the way to migrate.
Lurking into my little nest-like home
Through my half-open window –
I can’t help but pouring out
The three quarters of my tears in my life
out:
Skyline. Bedroom. Scarecrow:
Pounding in my dreams
along the journey
Like thousands of migratory birds
Still flocking.
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Spring unfolds like a letter from home.
The camphor tree peeking into my window,
Young, wears its cold green leaves.
Swallows comb the sky with their wings.
When night slips into my collar,
I look for a way for my heart to germinate.
Moon ripples in the sky,
The buttons on my shirt,
Half stars, half ample fruits.
Grass irons my cotton shirt clean.
Moist breezes glaze my lips.
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Swallowed an anchor with roots
To answer a question that’s subjective
Used brackish rains to rhyme with my left ear,
Like I’m falling for walking down
A closet in a jumble. For search
A button of words
In the dark.
Like trimming rains without a mother.
Told ¾ grass and ¼ raindrops lying on the floor
(Earth worms and earthly rains, trample into half,
everywhere)
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Years skate across your skin.
How did the reason sediments
In my name.
Once upon a time
A girl seals an envelope with a kiss.
& Beside it my flowers wilt
As if they have a name of spring in them
Waiting to grow old.
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We exchange
Our
mires and cliffs
via
fictional
hugs, breaths, sleeps and
strokes.
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So much depend upon
The stars like freshly fried eggs
Clings onto the plate of the national flag
Manipulated pink and petals
With a radian that’s artificial:
As if they’ve just been workshopped;
Also lavish sunlight
crowning the window
with tender afternoon wind
growing warmer and dimmer
even more.
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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.
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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
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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.)
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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.
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