For the unnamed 3
pages turned unwillingly
in books you never read
but just keep looking through
like a painter lost in colour
living one's art alone
in spaces that can't reflect
the greyness of your stillness
but just the lines of your face
covered in doodles
that someone drew while waiting
for moments to fall
like dust after rain
onto a past too tangible
you are
a creator of reasons for nothingness
anti-destruction
moving to the pitch of transformation
into the flow of action in non-action
like a creator of choice
that you just let go
for others to not feel
the depth of your pain
"我爱生活感谢日子, 我爱生命感谢痛苦"
