Hollow Grove


The plant had leaves
On the ground, swimming dust
Its death smells nice
Colorful decay
Eternal plane hills
Puddle, it is a puddle
I forgot to close the door

Windows open, birds chirping, wind asleep;
A screen is lit, crackling melodic hums comes out of a strangely false sense of freedom and security.
An artificial sound in tune with that of birds, yet dissonant in contents more than just in their nature.
Who would project their will to do something like this?
Hearing what it wants, even if it comes out half broken,
In which the rest of the world becomes deafening through its flooded silence?
Or, rather: Who would not do that? —
I suppose that would be the more appropriate question.
A glass-like misshapen comfort within a generated light.

On another screen, below a window to the evening sky, sits here in binaries:
A picture of digital burnt grass and of mountains looking like hills.
At the top of them, I remember that time.
Morning and afternoon, night and day all the same, at every flick of the wrist.
Has it changed since then?
And I remember the blowing wind, unwelcoming.
Why is it that I treasure lonely memories?
Yet in the same vein,
Wanting again for the brevity of longing,
Remembering again everyone’s eyes and mouths.
All I had that day was a heavy bag and willing shortness of breath —
A human farce in a desert of green and burned trees.
I stood at the top of mountains then, believing myself wielding a flail.
Tonight now, I stand at the top of my hill,
Repenting for a firm way of living;
Soft still as its waters fill.

Strength and vulnerability, to be told to show and not to show,
To believe and to fail at lying; even to fail at honesty.
A monstrous uncertainty roars in its virtuous frailty,
Asking unconscious seekers to abandon the sun.
Where does one stand when paths are eclipsed?
Bulbs or dust, acting as a suffix for a familiar obscurity.
Now standing, looking at an ever-expending, seemingly infinite electric garden —
A skeptic fearing to be caring for colored fractals, as if it were a burden.

…
I wrote something once. A platitude perhaps;
nevertheless be it a truth that took the form of a sentient and self-righteous lung,
breathing through the incense of forgotten dozens of months.
“And the world of man is ultimately a world of suffering,
for it always seeks something or someone else, more and never less.”
A dearest friend dislikes it, as I learned to do the same,
yet we can never seem to disagree,
no matter how naïve we try to be in loving even our own humanity.
We hike in our dreams, always to hope after we wake.
But dreamers die when they awake.
I wonder then, are we only to be part of someone’s blue memories?
Those are things I wonder unendingly about,
when silence transforms itself in crickets and owls...
really, even when crows fly and make a racket.
At the end of the day I ponder: if saints are sinners,
heaven and hell seem no more a dream than reality.
Then, why are we?


Waking up from a nap
Under a red velvet tarp
Looking up at the blue sky,
Gaze lowering to a sight:
The love of one's life.

Then waking up again, alive ―
A dream dissolving in real time
Subconscious memories left to die
Obscuring shadows born from starlight
Omens of lives that cried.



\\ To a paper
It’s happening again ― this feeling ― 
I’m uncertain as to why
When I look at the world in front of me
It saddens me
If I stare for too long
I weep
I feel my will leave
The smiles I saw fading in memory
Time swallowing
I cared to be sure not to care
Yet still I am pained
Why must we leave and leave
And the world gets left behind?

\\ To a friend
I don't know why
When I look at the world; landscape, people or what have you
Wherever, even in front of my house
I get sad
And sometimes I weep
That is, if there's nothing on my mind
And there has been for a while, yet tonight I'm feeling some form of clarity
And everything feels weightless again
"welcome home", a gnawing void calls
"it's been a bit"
But i guess this will be a moment before I say hi to the nothing again
It’s horrid, distressing, anguishing, painful, and hopeless
But it's true
I can't bear to look at the world in this state
Sorrow is my companion tonight
Like long time friends again
I'll miss it in the morning
But I'll be glad it's gone


I went through a hill
Rotting on top were houses
Old and abandoned,
Wooden and stoned,
Strucutral integrity encased in ancestry,
And lived houses:
Cleaned and odd.

The abandonment
It was felt
The ghosts were there
You could only see them
Memories encased in forlorn ancestry,
And lived outside:
An open graveyard.


To care and to love, to love and to care.
A soul that dug a hole inside and gave its piece to another,
Hoping for the same in return.
For lives well lived:
Souls dancing in unison under the darkest of nights,
they illuminate each other's eyes.

Dreams, shared nightmares,
Pillow talks and sweet pleasures,
Simple talks and moments lived;
It's nothing at all, it's just you and your partner.
Just one more night, one more day,
Falling deeper still in each other's eyes.

Some people live to find this kind of solace,
Even when the time comes for a white mourning,
Flowers on the windowsill.
Can you blame them?


Hands carved by the wind, 
dormant sinews through glacial rains, 
palms open and fingers reaching to the sky, 
any stain that light inflicts upon them as scars.
Still grasping for more, 
rib-cage hollow; 
legacy to be devoured, 
forsaken past rounding decimals to pi formulas: 
dinner served for their executioners. 

Numerous arms then, all praying tirelessly, 
winter here only to show what it means: 
Sorrow permeates, silent cries fly, 
medicinal tears feeding, 
light fleeting, 
life staying, 
tragedy becoming; 
colorless orders made out of grey matter that didn’t ask to be there.



	Standing outside, looking at where to build a little nothing 
	for something to keep my health in standing, 
	decision made I look around the garden, ravens flying an overcast sky, 
	decorative emotional remnants of the heart of another February. 
	Gaze settling on a corner, landscape familiar to its summerside, 
	branches naked and ground grazed by the kindest cold I’ve encountered. 
	There this window sheltered me from the living sounds, 
	focusing on something to strike my heart, making me remember why I hide: 
	My heart pinches still, upper body aching of an odd emotional frostbite, 
	and when I stood there my eyes could not support the dam. 
	It overflowed for a little while, but the breeze held my face and wept in my stead. 
	I dared not look up as I walked back to my tent, 
	and my heart pleas for something it doesn’t want to imagine, really. 
	What a coward’s way to exist, what a proper way to live.



	Where were I to live to see the sun shine forever North, 
	a night to sleep forever South, 
	and all seasons to keep reasons forever in the heart. 
	Still, muscles exert; some tear ― 
	yet a word was given to keep on walking until the destination is reached: 
	counter-clockwise across mountains, 
	and a giant’s back to walk on with heels without so much as pinching it.
	It slumbered for millions of years: coat of snow, 
	poppies of spring found only there during the summer and gasping so quickly
	it is as if they were never there in the first place.



	I sailed my feet on an ocean,
	Ice-broken rivers without motion.
	Swallowing tides in differentials,
	Nadir upwards a perplexed ephemeral ―
	Zenith downwards its broken down tangential.

	Where could it have been seen
	The softest wind yawning,
	Frostbitten through clothing
	By the high arctic sea is seen:

	Coasts and mountains of charcoal:
	All that which were left on snow
	Give way to skulls and antlers ―
	And nothing felt,
	And nothing left.