Sacrilege

Morning (six o'clock)

An age-dried corpse pithed itself on the tree
Like a spread-out ample sail hung proudly. 
From that tree Life and Death shared a decree; 
Through malodor they spoke their pact loudly. 
I punctured three holes
In my aspen-wrist—with a kiss—then cheated
The brooding blood so they flooded
With eye-splinter colour—
The summer-sun shaded shadows that slipped and
Flipped-flopped their lives
From those death-bound doors.

Midday

There were hurry beats of feathers and wings
That captured a dire drama of harvest. 
The music box bird-caged its steel-bound sins
And wept for what it has clawed for the fire-feast. 
There were thirteen
Knocks on the vacant wood—
She's no mood to 
Play her childish pastime.
A small chime echoed the purple
Forest to bring rest and peace
To the ancient ghosts—like good hosts
We shunned them beneath the sand.

Evening (five o'clock)

It was there, the skeletal-grey tower, 
With the white fear-filled bed dominated. 
Anguish twirled the bed sheet in the centre—
There she once struggled—to be sedated. 
She, a tired blood-stained dove
In the evening, flew, diving—to cloak
The morbid window light 
O' the night—she shone darkness
Fervidly, vividly, and beautifully morose—
Like a rose, she bled red
In my garden.

Night (nine o'clock)

The nocturnal fear has tempted and tried—
'Til it became dark—a child sobbed and cried.

Dale Chou
2001-03-07