Bare bone or a prawning white,
A little rail yard, laments her name
The moment she flipped,
Eyeballs hides a prayer, quaint and dark under
A ruthless blank lover she contains no love.
But clinching, knitting, spidering, her fingers
Rearing up and bracing his stemming hairs,
Said: Should be slayable for every you, lord
And until old, I sleep. Many apparatuses passed,
Sang a same requiem against her cat-like eyes
Devilish only at night but shut for a lifetime.
"You are right, until old, you sleep"
I close the script beyond a view of February landscape,
Thinking where she had been, and then the train from Waterloo,
Howls and hools, to the woman I see how she stood,
A tiny stride into a doll's self- portrait,
That was the last time her eyes shined through,
The marching smoke.
Then the dead thrusting forwards and scream
Connecting to a vast chamber of vacant airy
Crowds, that's it, she was just a woman to them.
I think, there are indelible finger prints graved deep
Beneath every inch of city bricks belong to the labouring
Night after night and sweats sunk in river and children's cry.
Across one hundred years of salt water and rocks,
That's when I ask to her straight look, drifting still
"Where else, can you go?"
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PuisiA poetry collection written by a Chinese girl. Biggest life goal of her: sitting in perfect balance of daylights and nights, back towards a mysterious naked tree, a cup of chai is better than coffee. Thinking, turn a being as living
