It’s the same place, still with the ol’ me,

only the time is different, like a peak of

shadow, burning holes on my shoulder,

melting and vanishing into thin air, what

i’m having anymore, what i’m losing

anyway, i don’t know — remains as a

question of a half broken pen of a broken

wanna be writer, perhaps you’ll hear the

same crack as me through the slingshot,

i’m still the same with ol’ rotten flesh, smell

before the cold dusk, here they write

stories as mistakes: telling as clouds

flow downward, in the long spiral ham

run, you’ll see thousands falling behind:

but it’s not a squid game, you won’t lose

your life after every loss but you’ll lose

a part of yourself after cross, you have

had with yourself, someone heard the bell

ringing after every silence — I’m still

collecting every breath, every whisper

where the rock tells, trolls, strolls with

another streak of course!

I’m walking on the seashore,

leaving my broken pen halfway.

— 21st January, 2025.