Another rejection, another sleepless night, another dagger in my heart. I stumble and fall; I don’t feel anything. My vision ripped from me I plunge into darkness; I don’t feel scared. I whimper, screaming inaudible; I feel numb. Something appears in the pit of my stomach; it crawls up my throat; I feel a sensation. As I begin to taste it, I beg my throat to keep it; I feel a tingle. The words burning into my tongue, I cry out for you; I feel fear. I know you won’t come; now I feel everything.
–––––––––– “I write so I can breathe.” – the writer
The human mind in perennial discontent never fully appeased, agitated with intensity, perpetually stretching itself beyond recognition for the divine-designing Mind of God; restless too of heart, pained by the sensuous world’s fast-fading beauty tempered with ambiguity at every memory’s turning towards the mysteriously magnetic still point pointing due north through a crucible of sublime melancholy and exaltation, the crux of soul and heart rising.
––––––––––– The poet is a college professor of religious studies.
Unconsciously, I’ve chosen a difficult road – going forward, thorns. going back, I don’t see my home.
By now, I can only wish that I can move on and be firm.
Don’t ask about me. Assume I’ve got many things in this world forgotten, like festivals, travels, and the enthusiasm for a reunion.
People are decorating their lives, to cheer others or please themselves. I only want to be left alone, with one heart sinking to the bottom.
–––––––––– Zhihua Wang is a poetry candidate in the Arkansas Writers’ MFA Program at the University of Central Arkansas. Her work has appeared in Aji Magazine and Currents, and is forthcoming in Last Leaves Magazine and San Pedro River Review.
A beautiful lake — an unfinished plate of soup made from the sky and finely cut pickled cucumbers of the reflected trees. And a small neat castle – a trinket with the clinking keys of birds – squeezes the space with the hairy fingers of the meadows. Surely, a small ogre lives there. He has combed hair and is polite like a museum curator.
–––––––––– Dmitry Blizniuk is a poet from Kharkov, Ukraine.