BY JULIE CHEN
Opened oak door sends whiff of wind against
Cool walls. Breeze kisses blank pieces of paper,
drifting like slabs of flimsy white marble that
Flutter to the ground. Man walks into dark, dark
Room. Legs curl, knees bend. Reach down and pick them up,
Gently, gently. Such like sympathetic
Elder to tender child. Pick them up, smooth them
Out. Rustle and crinkle as stack lands on table, come
Silence as envelope—empty, damp and cold.
Ears that listen ring in moment’s silence.
Eyes that adjust see halo in blank darkness.
Solitude, so leads to thought. The chill within
The dark room so settles. Sedate, creeping
So deep into his mind; the nooks and alleys of
A human mind. Those thoughts they leak, rushing
Out of his pen, entwining with dark, moist ink
Into loops and lines, gliding into stone.
Man at the desk, sharing secrets to empty
Surface, marring purity of paper so
Fine. Pen gushes trails of hope, morphed into
Symbols of a heart’s desire. A lone, cryptic
Human heart’s desire, drenched in a veil all soaked
With vision behind a door on worn hinges
In a dark, dark room. Cabin amongst swaying
Reeds. Language blurring the edge of wild notion
With a man’s down-to-Earth articulations.
Bottomless human mind spilling infinite
Substance through barricades of pencil and paper.
Lonely human hearts selling their souls to
Pieces of flimsy, flimsy white marble.
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