In one corner, she stands with
midnight tresses ablaze with self-righteousness.
In the other corner, he stands with
arms folded and eyes alert to sudden convulses.
And then there is I
in the middle of the ballroom, fiddling
with my coat pockets,
where whispers hide and laments tingle
chorusing in a current
too strong to release.
The one in the corner, wearing a smirk like Dionysus
so drunk on his pomp and circumstance,
the forest begins to bleed,
she stomps and hammers
fence posts back into the ground,
while the one in the other corner, silent
like a magick lantern picture
looks to me with duty’s vision:
I will protect you from raid,
I will protect you from dystopia,
I will protect you from yourself.
Rooted from mere days of light and alternating harvests,
my feet will not transport me to higher shores,
my feet will not permit me to follow her
back into a bed of thorns.
Here comes the maelstrom again,
bawling for Pavlovian treats,
I will scold her fans up to the ceiling,
press them into the stucco beams;
The folded arms will unfurl,
spirit me to a never-ending dream.
— yiqi 30 march 2015 7:33 AM