Stories, dust are the two flips of one coin.

One has the flesh, another one is the remaining

ash of existence, what’s the secret then?

The innermost layer of another crust,

picturesque perfect— the world works

through in, out of the flow, emerging

realtime vision, ghostly voices all they

heard, the clouds glide over the moon.

They walk, hands in hands beside the

last lamp post, shrug upon their pose.

It’s the dream, where cold hiss between

their lips, the wall between the two road

closed without further notice, in the long

windy shot, all you can see the smokes

of wet stories, starlight drive to the store

passed away, vanished in thin air.

In the distance fall, asleep on the rock

one voice lies, dripping out the last straw

He sings of journey with soft mouth closed,

The maiden heart gets it, the lows in the

dead drop, so the shadow remains in the past.

In the grove of parallel wind, it cascades

over her face, illuminating the clamp

of nervous sound— it beats aloud.

The bells chime over the golden town,

The city— still— with broken voices,

Filled in silence, bearing the last story

of waving rain, they welcome the dust

to recreate, to sit in another stored silence.

— 22nd August, 2024.