The year is like a snake,
crawling through a field
tortuously toward its end.
Clouds like trucks roll
across the sky.
Stars burn in the void
of a black night, only to die.
My toenails are as long
as sabers. My hair
falls into my eyes.
Writing a poem is harder
than climbing a mountain,
or drinking from a dry fountain.
My face looks as old
as the Yellow River.
Only two months ago,
I felt like I was twenty-five,
when you were still alive.
longexposuremagazine.com 