Twilight
The roaming child wouldn’t let his sorrow show,
When fragments of watery blue sublimed into the afterglow.
He was told twilight stems from every pink toe,
That prints its infant lemon-green on reflection of a rainbow.
They say twilight is a net weaved by mayflies,
When the florescence of their transient lives defeats sunrise.
Then their wings shatter and sink into the ocean’s eyes,
That’s why there seems to be more stars than in the skies.
But for him twilight is a candle in a rosewood tray,
Where along branching fissures tears of wax wind their way.
During white nights he was blinded with pearly beams of ray,
That once through Ice age passions and hopes to relay.
In the canal of eventide his heart quietly bleeds,
Sitting on a vein of mussels that towards terminal leads.
Gold in the sand under his feet is daylight’s seeds,
Which will grow into a lucent curtain of flaming weeds.
Imprisoned
When the eaves were frozen over with rime ice,
He played his cello through starry nights to the dancing mice.
Regards it more vulgar to satisfy their worldly hunger with rice,
Than to seduce gamblers with a dirty dice.
On left little finger wears a ring carved out of jade,
Which hand hibernated in a white glove for a decade.
Some guess his soul once had to through despair wade,
Goaded by a stony-heart or a sharp blade.
Before spring rain covered his window with sapphire drops,
The dreamy waltz of his fingers on piano keys never stops.
He said unique prayers; he listens to classical, jazz but no pops,
He occasionally visits galleries, museums and antique shops.
A stern woman brings him twice a month Pu’er tea,
From across an ocean of surging leaves underneath a gingko tree.
She holds the rusty key to his gate yet unable to set him free,
For his solitude is an irrevocable decree.
No grief, no surprise, no insanity, no fears.
No controversy, no sermon, no throb of pain, no tears.
At both superstition and corporal pleasures he sneers,
And squandered without mercy his black and white years.
