Part II

Today it rains on a ceiling glass that sits
four or five meters above me,
wherever I may find myself.

I see people's rubber soles walk by,
what is this intense desire to connect back
if I despise most people anyway?

The past very much behaves like
the heaviest anchor.
At night, it feels like menacing seas,
heaving with a life full of promises of death.

My gospel is full with scribblings
in furious ink, the days getting dark
with the soot of bruised yearnings.

Heart in a shrinking cage.
You know that pain.

"hello, I am your sorrow,
you'll remember when..."
I was jolted, for I thought I was alone
below this ceiling.
Only wind and leaves sculpting my coat.
My longing for more rain the only
other moving thing in there.

And the future, it
feels tired and deflated.
Impervious to arousals.
The future needs new flesh to coat its old bones.
Wings to take flight.
Razor wire to practice eating,
(get rid of those tonsils)

Spit, spit! spit these words,
and move on.
That ceiling is only a dream.