Pieces of Moonbeams

XXXVII: sitting with melancholy

i.

i sat again with melancholy beside me
i said, "Hello, we met again."
it couldn't say anything.
i'm totally relieved it couldn't.

i was wondering if i could be afloat
on top of the blue sky.
a thousand altitude above the ground,
little heads & houses--
away from my peripherals,
away from the scenery
that i could only see the air
flowing in nothingness.

freefalling at the surface
with no one to catch me
in the four-corners of the room—in the tiles
i could never step in.
wherein both the lights & the shadows
couldn't be nearly distinguished
from each other of how could
they dissolve each particles
concealed from darkness.

i was diving into thoughts--
if poetry could be an ocean,
a sea, a river, a lake, a dampsoil
that water are words that
overflow the vessels of poetry.
that the pressure it holds reflect
how deep or shallow it was.

that it washes thoughts and replace reality
like how you were strolling
& riding your two-wheels
while the pouring rain falls
from the empty sky,
and it splashes arrows of raindrops
that hit the exteriors of your face.

how soothing it is to bear the gravity—
to feel the existence of the earth
of the lightweight touch
of the little raindrops,
as if the stars are falling,
but in forms of water splashes.

ii.

i was also surfing my mind full of emptiness
if how could not my muse read my poetries?

if one has no muse to write—
like in every canvas
where the subject fills
the wholeness of the art,
where the muse scatters its details & bits,
to permeate & linger
its essence on the matrix--
in a paper where art & poetry
are solidified from pieces.

then—how can one's hands
write words that immortalize
from the big details to the small ones,
the patterns, the rhymes?

could a muse delve into the depths—
to the floor, to the surface,
to the cores of understanding
wherein meanings are meant
to stick to the anchors
of the weight & heaviness
that my pen brings to me
as i grip the ocean of poetry—
where i still hadn't reach the surface.

the inks of poetry.
the water that the ocean fuses
as i swim to the letters,
and the musings that got halted
by the waves of every line of the page.

i wanna write with no muse,
with no special thing or person to write.
where us poets don't need
our steady consciousness
to be invaded by running thoughts
about our subject.

iii.

i sat again with music.
i search deep again on its bridge.
oh, the music. it echoes again & again
with no permission.
on its finale, on its ending tune—it even
never ends.
on its outset tune, it even never starts.

i sat again with poetry as my tablecloth
with my shaky hands—cross together
for the words to come back to me.
we eat & chew words
that fill the mind's gluttony
letters & rhymes as food
to be our appetite to read.

spoon & fork as poetry.
the chills of the wind as our melody.
isn't rhyming in one's prowess
really difficult to reach,
if the spaces & lines,
if the stanzas & words
don't ever rhyme?

i even forgot that i even brought
the silence to the other side of the chair—
i realised it was never in tune.
it doesn't even make a sound
like melancholy do.
it has a different voice.
a different calling.
a different music.

the silence never fades—
as if the silence screeches its throat
to call my name, but even i don't answer.
as if its hollow ribcages
would be cut open
for me to hear its whispers.

i move my body with tranquility,
where i could dance
with the music of nothingness.

i want to be like a lightweight feather—
just flying with the wind
orbiting the outskirts of the earth.

i rather wanna be a stagnant water,
but still flows to where
the time had set me to.
i want my body to be steady
but moves with lightness.

i want to grow out of bareness.
to be with nothingness.
wherein i & my own space
could only exist from emptiness.

wherein my own broken shards
contained inside my flesh
will be rebuilt once again, anew.

von frederick, sitting with melancholy
June 28, 2023