I've been scribbling over the whites of my eyes
Soaring over scattered spaces
without wings and without God
Flying here on the ground
moving more than moving at all
I keep wandering around these mausoleums
meandering through these pathways
and in the thorn-marred trails
I don't fear thorn-brought scars
I've been eying the trees and their twisted poise
and I wonder if in death
the might have brushed heaven with their fingertips
and if the seasons are negotiations
the speech of spring to the wind's brown petals
I walk around the graves
with their name's marked "mother"
and the text spelling "sister"
where the improper script doesn't cease to make your heart ache
I've felt this ice trickle across my scalp
and the rain fall through the worn spots in my hands
and I haven't yet convinced myself that the world
is more angry than it is beautiful
