Though irreversible, my poetry's
unrecognizable as shadows;
even voices of thousand echoes,
bounce on valleys no shallow;
since undefined, hence, unbounded;
will my poetry be singing;
like a chorale inside me,
upon the tunes I'm stringing
but a hundred of swerves;
like an ocean of rage,
of my yesterday's downfall;
crestfallen but engaged,
to the tides and calmness,
to the songs and whispers,
to the static silence,
to the breeze and blisters
for art is my haven;
and art is my savior;
my body's porgatory,
my soul's been my killer;
in unconcievable breath,
where my sprit exists;
for I've fallen unbroken;
but my wings still resist;
as my poetry did fly,
with their structure - my stains;
and I stepped on their rhymes,
where these artworks grew bare;
until I stepped the last step,
and breathed my last breath,
though goodbye's never prayed;
but my poetry's no death.
