The next stop is..

Always in the wait for the last stop,
anticipation ends at the far end;
indifferent announcements are made
over and over, still.
Cold metal cage opens and closes,
flows in an army of clones,
flushes out another army of clones;
another simple matter of exchange.
All are stoned like sculptures,
masterpieces created by blankness;
distinctively different yet strangely similar,
all in comply with the empty stare rule.
Motions stay frozen, so does
emotions, under lock and key in a forgotten island;
buried deep down in a bottomless hole,
brings about curiosity and danger.

Deadness condensed in the air,
grows by every minute, spreading around
vigorously like a seaonal flu;
unconscious are the patients, though.
A new deadly disease is born,
weathering one's affections bit by bit;
the only way to escape from further decay,
perhaps, is to leave at the right stop.
written while I was stuck in the subway tube.


Summer tune's last note.

Feels like it was yesterday when
summer sang its first tune of the year.
Notes were blishfully light,
dancing around in harmony.
Everything was new then;
sharper, brighter,
crispier, fresher,
evolved from the moody spring.
Spontaneous drizzle vaporized,
while playing under the sun.
Layers and layers of mystery gone,
by just an effortless blow.
Sizzling hot was the sand,
heaven's golden grains on ground;
waveless sea ran smooth as silk,
demonstrated the liveliest shade of blue.
Laughters echoed all around,
bursting like new year's fireworks,
showered every corner with
the simplest and directest joy.
Almost too perfect to be real,
as if staying in a wrong dream;
carried away by a long chain of
fragile and fleeting soap bubbles.
Will this summer tune run until
reached its everlasting end?
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