Something reflects off of you;
it withers, in the scorching freedom
of time, waiting for you to go on by
as the Kallang River does;
supposedly indifferent to shipyards, and airports, and riverside parks.
One is invited to suppose
at what might happen,
after dark.
Who lingers by the dreamside,
waiting for the waters to rise up,
just a little too starkly lit
in the mind's eye.
I do not know what you're talking about.
I do not wish to be
identified.
And I do not wish to be seen or heard.
I do not wish for your Pride;
I wish only for the security
that security can bring.
I wish only for a bed, and a place to hide
when all those I loved have gone.
When they came for me, and so I had to elide
who I was, a serenity
masked, put up in place; not just to survive
but to grasp a hold of whatever remains
of my own, withering, wintering
Tree of Life.
We live in Singapore,
but sometimes it's so fucking cold inside.
Sometimes the void comes for you,
at night.
Not Death. Death stands tall.
Death respects honour, and life.
This is the creeping sense
that something is wrong with the stars and the moon.
Also in the sky.
With the way the tides
do not represent, quite
as accurately,
the waves of emotion that once, at least, helped you to realise
that it's okay to sometimes try.
Now, when even the law doesn't seem to respect itself;
other things start to grow stronger. To try harder.
Other things are wrong.
Other things are lies.
In the quieter earths,
something naked licks its own tongue.
Something else has been devouring the sun.
Something else is coming.
Something that might make hell itself
look bright.
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