Sometimes I wonder the shreds in hands, flowering fingers,
How could their tiny bits slip on
sunset and thunder?
My nails scratch louder than a crack,
and my shout tore the throat,
Ai, I, the surname,
glancing a battle scars walk between life and death.
So every second it passed by I
measure those hills beneath,
floats on a violet, green cliff,
or one more step forward is a point of no return,
oasis and desert both ahead.
And the crack my lover breath in between,
a butterfly sniffs,
will he tell me the world inside a breeze, a drop, a thunder, and a storm?
Ai, I, tore the name and the lost soul apart
a crack in dark is no more than just a scar.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoetryA 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
