Thursday, April 20, 2017

詩 Making Friends

My overtures of friendship
have all been played

before audiences of tourists
who left, mid-performance
at wristwatches glancing

"Planes back to your real lives
departing in ten minutes"
over intercom crackling

Soul's lament at the filling
of a great vessel
with my own blood

Only to find it later
all drained away
by an unseen crevice

Can we not trust
the soundness of our own souls?

Blood, like time,
cannot be saved and spent later
can it?

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