New doctrine

“I’ belong to no one and no one belongs to me” could be the funeral song for celebrating death.

But reversely we dramatize the death into a fake play.

Where sensitivity lost its identity.

Happiness stares in front of the mirror with its colored face.

Sorrow acts as a silly motherless child.

And then the conclusion buries into the memorial arch of darkness.

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Word

Word speaks out

in the serene field

while the wind speaks through silence

word gives pleasure

resonated as piano

forever into the memoir of life

word stops lament

through the flow of sensitiveness

like a solitary cascade

while word screams

everything ended

in complete darkness

rush

laying thinking singing

dangling in the silence

dying……………..

crystal clear images

blooming through

the covering

emerges and silhouetted

blur shadow something

like a holy shadow

silence …….. hush

every everything

vanishing

within the glimpse

of perishing……. rush

Words

Words always grow

Come welling up from the mysterious meaning of life

That’s why

Words aren’t concocted form like human

They are the consensus of life and existence

Only they mirrored the true image of god

Word is grass

The grasses of heaven only haven of the true poets

Word buries in Golgotha

Where every grass dance with the spirit of silent words.

One day all the poets will go to heaven

Supple words have delicately written

With poet’s soft touch

Ensure humbleness,

Through the domain of self-disrespect

Because the poetry evolves from the modesty

Not from the self-conceit.

Come welling up from the river of words

Ever growing river which exists in every poet’s dream

As an insatiate heaven,

That’s why the poet’s owe no hell

Only sweet heaven of pleasure.

One day all the poets will go to heaven

All the poets will fly

All the poets will have halos like Christ

Hipster, half mad

Or else ideal, numb.

Yes all the poets will go to heaven

Because they know how to protect themselves-

From the poisonous pierce of sin

Before they got pierced.

Like the anti-ballistic missile

Manuscript is their court of justice-

Inauguration of the poem-collections-

Is their celebration instead of New Year.

And they will have survived looking through the high sky

When the loaf of bread will fell down

Just like as fragments of poetry.

My son is my sun

My dear son,

I always cross the hazy mountain to see you

Wash my dirt of shame with the holy foams

And have to get searched by the patrols

Only to encounter with your markings.

But yet I shall have not soared through the Louvre

To meet with Monalisa

Rather be a drone if needed

Would be an airborne in my indescribable dream

Or haunted like chiaroscuro into the festival of colors.

My son is my sun

I ‘m within you and

You’re within me!