I don't paste any stars on the
bedroom walls now.
They set my room on fire a while ago.
The smoke still puffed into frozen
hanging down from the knitted knots.
I grill enough holes to fit blue hopes
in the doors that still hold the blurred
nameplate of a home.
There's no ink left to invite moths.
But,the roots can stay a bit longer.
I allow the murks filled with dirts of
light to flow in,
blow the drapes and kill termites.
Windows being stitched with sunshine.
Doors always left open for the rain.
I let the universe to crawl in every
shape it wants,
on these walls from outside.
To expand a little more from inside.
An artifact under none to name.
Wrapped in infinite deaths and
I fall a little more against gravity.
Deeper and darker.
Far away from known wonderlands,
To stay nearer their unknown wastelands.