The exiled

The message—lost
As my mind meandered through
The aphotic alley, symphonied
By the club of strangers.
(Noted with three fingers.)

And 'twas on this canvas
The ink soaked—and soared. Made alight
With my pensword. The paper scarred;
The thoughts furrowed; the days moved
By the shadows.

But it was lost. Yes,

It was lost nonetheless
With such empyrean certainty
And never to be found.
My intention thus concealed
And charted

The same fated illness
As those exiled.

Dale Chou
2005-01-27