The Swaying Bridge By ChiAn The swaying bridge, Black, silent, she speaks not, A dot of red on her forehead, The whirlpool eye, half closed, Seeing the unseen, sensing the unknown, Secret longings for pumpkin seeds, Sown in the stomach of coal, Cold ash on the ropes, Adjoining the canyon of tomorrow, Rail handles for Mr. Postman, Running from village to village, Delivering serenades in rum and gin, Crossing infernos, the deepest depths of hell, She would go, to see love unfold, Her heart ahead of her mind, Twisted by the wild twirls of his hand, Sweeping her in waves of ecstasy, Planting danger, planting sulphur, She would flow, to see white conquered, Her mind ahead of her tongue, Curled by the swarming fireflies, Green, beaming and sparkling, The river of fire, roaring, Indignant molten streams of amour, The flames not burning her, The waters not drowning her, In a portal of pearls, She would be protected, neglected, reflected, On the silver pathway, the eclipsed stairway, Leading to misunderstandings of grief, I will understand if you cannot wait, So said the squashed tomato to the mouse, The tides will rise and fall, come and go; The last boat is at the pier, catch it, If you miss it, you May never leave. This island will be your prison. If you miss it, you May never arrive. All the oceans of the world is but one. There your time comes, there your time goes, Walking on stilts of incense and rosemary, Simon shooting St. Paul on the horizon, Hijacking heaven, he ransacked the mansions, Looking for pay, searching for Mei, The beauty of the Orient, long lost, Long dead, this song that doesn't exist, This wrong which cannot be righted, For mistakes, for lipsticks, for mystics, They would be kept in her navel, Droplets of sweat flooding the belly button, Vapors of confusion crawling up her spine, Tarantula piano recitations, purring and stirring, Clawing into space evaporating, taste dissolving, She was a ghost, a foiled voice in the dark, She would not descend, she would not ascend, For if she could be a constant, she could not wait, Not for another quarter of a second, not forever, Slashing another fishbone to represent ten years, She hear the lava hoofs of minotaurs, Twenty thousand miles from her rushing head, Thinking about how age would have graced him, The knight of despair, riding on a fluid unicorn, Inching forward, he thought he would never make it, When he started, his hands were empty, his feet tired, And even if he had lived up to five hundred, He would never believed he would get so far, So much nearer to the shores of oblivion, He would not know if she would be there, It was the biggest gamble of his life, This one for the romantic fatalist, Standing in the middle of midnight, He sent her a cloud grasshopper everyday, To sustain her, to retain her, to obtain her, Forever, Mei, forever, he would struggle, For her hand on fevered throat, The signal for progress, for a new dress, Expressively, he would deliver to her window, The song of white crows.