My soul misplaced itself;
maybe lost along the winds,
of earthly culture fuss
together with my sins,
well, never will my sins
be flown away like dusts;
maybe uncolored parts I missed
to paint while spilling gusts;
now incomplete;
for hundredth time,
my longing poem
be gone of signs;
since so undressed
have I presented,
my sprawling art
be gazed unwanted;
examining identity;
debating facts on false,
have I hidden not their words
which I have taken first;
only to be betrayed,
only to be stolen,
my great relief and my respect
like icebergs -- melted, fallen;
but missing may some pieces;
for years I've patched
but passion's never stolen
with the magic it hatched
it's where I've been headed
where I'm re-sourcing my breath.
now my soul reconstructs
for art's my living death;
