Author Information
Roll Away
Folder:
The Rushing Stream of Desires
Silence.
The waving sands have stopped parading.
The chalice is finally empty. The moon has finally won.
Tools spread out on the floor. Which one will fix the
plastered photographs left like sinking ships alongside
the road?
Praying.
The classic words moaned in anger as the bells
stop their tones. The divine armoury found stagnant
as the doors to the sacred crumble into tiny pieces
of wood.
Stopping.
The pursuing sonnets sprayed like dust upon the
walls of the jail. Living tissue withering in the
flipping wind that rushes past the sun. The good
news is spread like yesterday's newspaper
into frying idols lying upon the decaying tissue
of stone.
Me.
The typecast stereotype of painting brushes running
like flies out of the dung. Among the many illusions
lies the truth buried in a chain. The old and new
perceptions indicating it has become the time to
roll away.
