THE NORM OF DISORDER

Acrylic, pastel, and marker pen on paper

The blue dust has a story to tell,

But tends not to say,

Except for the day before yesterday,

You are allowed to take one last sip,

At the end of the story,

The tangible wind will be at your fingertip.

There is no notion of “should be”,

Time is wrinkled,

Hearts are liquid,

I can only whisper my cowardice and bravery on the blank paper,

When you wipe snowflakes on my left shoulder.

In the gap of change,

I saw a twinkling haze,

On the edge of the mist,

I heard the stream whispering,

It said,

The wind will stay,

The wind will stay.

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