You are not a flower
blossoming alone in a desert.
I am not a starved butterfly
crossing a desert with heavy flaps.
You may be a nameless flower
blooming furtively in a dazzling rose garden.
I may be an obscure old scrubby butterfly
dancing in a glamorous group dance of butterflies.
Despite all of these,
a butterfly is seduced by your sweet nectar;
a flower is craving for an ecstasy
through my long winding proboscis.
Yeah! It would be alright
if you are called a butterfly;
if I am called a flower.
Out of the blue,
I feel I am a swan;
How hard it is to have an elegant life!
You are not a swan.
You are not elegant.
Ah! I see.
Hallucination is man’s must to survive,
but not easy to be living in
fantasy, delusion, illusion, imagination.
If I don’t call me swan,
I would be just a waddling duck.
I see a few old birds
sitting on a branch,
enraptured with me.
Now my illusion has evolved
so I can see young birds as well.
Isn’t swan a bird too?
It’s just a dream.
Don’t put it into your prison and/or
into your pathetically poor stream
of imagination without oar.
Give it a wing, an engine, whatever.
Kick it’s ass up high in the blue sky.
What if it won’t come true?
It’s just a dream hanging high
just like a piece of pie in the sky.
It’s not supposed to get through to you.
Ah! Nothing to lose
no matter how ridiculous your dream is.
So dream on and on…
as if you are in deep booze,
as if you are high on a low hill.
God won’t appear to me and say;
“Leave hear and go there…”,
I am not obedient Abraham.
God won’t appear to me as a burning bush,
I am not old Moses with a dream of Exodus.
God won’t appear to me as baby Jesus,
I am not Mary waiting for Messiah.
Beautiful Bathsheba bathing on top of the world,
tore down David who had too many women,
would surely rip me in pieces, who have too few women.
God would know….
A picture of Tulip I painted when I was a kid
was hung on the wall of my Church.
Let’s paint a woman who would destroy me.
Let’s paint God who would reveal
My sleeping dream,
My baby-like tender mind.