11/18/2013

Fucking Poetry

For Wang Zen

Burning me as a living thing
I, the combination of fire and wood
It is my fate that I get burned,
yet it is my desire still being alive

Sleeping in the morning rain
The little green sprout of my heart
Quiet, please
Breath of spring wind

Praying by your ritual flame
It creates energy and destroys me into carbon
It is my being
You are straight as stubborn me
Tolerating my disobedience

It is you, my being
Live wrong, dying away any way
Now is the time of departing

Shall I rupture me?
Shall I be back, or upon the burning logs?
Leaving our souls holding hands.

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