is it summer again?

the cicadas’ cries repeat, as if time itself has ceased to be.

i can’t tell if it’s a summer from ten years ago or now.

i walk down the road, veiled in smoke, toward home,

sharp yellow rain striking the concrete.

my tired body holds a withered umbrella,

with each step, i shed a piece of flesh.

around me, the insects raucous laughter echoes wildly,

and in the midst of madness and absurdity,

a shadow, like a soundless voice, says:

you’ll never know where i come from—

Hahahahahahahahahahaha

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha

flowers bloom in the spring breeze, breaking through

layers of dry, cracked earth. the bright yellow stings my eyes,

as if, in the next instant, the screen will flash with neon glitches,

cutting off all traces of growth, leaving behind

a mottled red wasteland.

my feet sink slowly into the red swamp,

helplessly watching as this laughing, spinning

scarlet vortex consumes me;

first my feet, then my legs, i crawl forward,

leaving streaks of bloodstains on the ground. i

see the bones of nameless birds lie discarded, yet

i still faintly hear the sound of seagulls

migrating through the mist.

the crackle of fire rings in my mind, mingling with gunshots,

rain pounding, drowned by the deafening roar of the swirling

crimson vortex in raucous laughter, obscuring

the shrill sound of chains dragging, like some sharp,

mocking laughs.

then i realize — i’ve long ceased to ask where i come from.

i don’t know how much time has passed till i will have

no more questions. so silence takes over.

perhaps, to be born human is to never utter any questions.

as for time — it is a mere illusion,

twisting, vanishing,

like a thought, molded in the mind.

the cicadas’ cries repeat,

as if time itself has ceased to be.

march 25, 2024