Three portraits

i

The clouds layered 
Haze upon your eyes, greyish—you 
Flared your arms wide-open in an unnatural angle
For an abstract note of dementia, 
Spiraled downwards from the skies. 
It spelt the hues of sycamore. 
Their thin and wispy cries echoed
Through the shadows in the air.

ii

The dreams survived, 
And the personae were troubled—
Recollection was made for a panorama 
Of preterition, but they could not live 
Without the sky-splitting monolith. 
It was the brightest day, and
You could almost feel the wound as
The bell tolled the final requiem.

iii

Veiled was the vista of memories
And the insatiable desire to look back. 
With an ashful of art 
He painted a dream that you could not follow—
Under the dust-white seam, 
His back arched with intense passion—
As you paced away, 
Eastwards, for your next cup of tea.

Dale Chou
2002-04-20