we showed-up queuing like masquerades
parading the city of smoke,
singing an intoned songs
and reading the poems of a requiem
like the fetus or a pollen grain in the ovaries.

anecdotes about the lost lands of aliens
can be seen written on the edge of our mouth,
when our eye's eyes build a kingdom
surrounded by sages—singing the rhyming
verses of hope and grief.

I sat myself on the pavement—
built by the month of July
counting the red-hot bullets
that hide in the sky's chest
while faded sky's tears—fall in a drop
to fill up the pots and broken hearts
that the fluid from the bees caves can't cure.

I realized that i was no longer a vernal me
reflecting the mirror of my eyes
but a quondamed spirit-faced homeless lad
from a stranger's world.

“I'm dead in the pages of a written poem”
when should rain flood away shelf of my books?
then, the mother, father could peer
into the pages of my hidden heart to lull it to sleep
while my father's broken body
will slips to the beach of a honey sea
where my mother came to existence
speaking the languages of the livings.