here's something i wrote on the plane ride back from anaheim to davis. it's a sad one.
la puerta de esperanza
every year, the door opens and grants admission for one individual. silence is the key. inside is a hospital bed and naked walls, peeling off with devastation. the lamp flickers and announces into the individual's eyes: "speak firmly with your hands."
this year a young man visits the room. he fingers chords on an invisible guitar and tears fall from his eyes like sighs. the silence screams from his guitar and he lets go, stunned; his hands resembling prayer.
the lamp flickers again: "is that all?" the man makes wings and flutters his hands, staring up at the ceiling which drooped down with dismay. the lamp: "i see."
the man opens the door and exits. behind him, he leaves a trail of tears, glistening as the lamp illuminates the hospital room in revelry.
(c) 2005 mai kozai
silence is also music. {9:15 PM}
the poet
mai sharona.
december 5, 1984.
davis, california.
a sucker for flowers.
