Ink Burns

On the alabaster skin of the morning,
beneath the cliffs where the wind retracts,
the rising sun dances.

I begin to draw the transfigurations
skimmed on the surface of inkwell,
I set on writing my prose.
A smoke covers up my writing,
issuing out of the ink.

There is a forest in flame on my page.
Flames leap into the boreal sky,
earth belches fire,
till sky falls to precipitate its anguish...

On the drum of earth,
rage-broken downpour dances.
You enter my porch,
and cast your shadow in darkness.
I can see your dimples,
I see your pregnant eyes-
that starve to flow.

I am lost behind the broken bones of sun,
I am looking into a pair of eyes,
eyes that lost their memory.
I am burning in this forest on my page...