Iron Chest

I put down the first word on the broken wall
each letter disappears into the sink hole
a kind of reverse devotion,

Night's piranha swallows the pale moon
on the staircase, stillness answers the cry
of empty doors.

I open my iron chest
seeking the shapes, not sure for what,
I leave some left-over handshakes.

The solitary leaf struggles to reach me
all along rose petals sense my despair
stirred and blighted, I lift my head,

burnt lamp oil narrates old stories
in shifting yellow light
but no one cares.

I may write the couplets in my dream
for I think night is the right time
only once, I will bring the alphabets on the page.

A split reflection, a drawing partially erased.