When you lit the candle for me for 45 years
Sorrow fills the glass, and candlelight illuminates the vicissitudes of time.
Who is the first to sing "Happy Birthday to you"
Who sent a message in the early morning to wish you a fortune?
The QQ space is already full of greeting e-cards.
Superposition blessing
Draw a beautiful arc on your forehead.
Maybe it's just a flash in the pan.
Instantly. Amazing is more sad because of withering.
Dust covers the scar and thickens layer by layer.
Such as a mottled hard shell.
Every grain is engraved with the pain of transformation.
Forty-five is the forty-five ring road.
It's a 45-thick shell.
From the inside out, from transparent to white to gray to black.
The wound was knotted and the scar was repaired, but it could not be recovered.
Now I like to curl up in my shell.
Get used to the temperature and safety in the shell.
If you feel chest tightness and shortness of breath
Stick your head out and get some fresh air.
self-portrait
Fill the wine of the night and let the sadness overflow the glass.
Drink up your youth, lick your scars when you are drunk.
In the dark, in a drop of wine
Holding a skeleton, grinning at me.
Look at him, a flame is burning in a deep hole.
The melancholy juice seeped out bit by bit and quickly occupied the whole space.
Lonely thoughts stand on tiptoe and walk out carefully.
Like a dancer, dancing alone in the dark, no one applauds.
Escape from the unfathomable hole, embarrassed like a loser.
I am not an explorer. Adventure has disappeared in my dictionary.
The flame of metal burning is enough to melt my soul.
From today on, I only care about poetry, wine and women.
commemorate
On my birthday, I opened a dictionary.
This dictionary is covered with thick dust and is a bit old.
Gently brush away the dust, like brushing away a memory without precipitation.
Page by page, in a pile of yellow words
I am looking for a forgotten word, which comes from the water in my mother's stomach.
Running all the time, along the track of time.
Didn't notice the process of a dust from birth to death.
I didn't pick up the fragments scattered by my predecessors.
Maybe someone will clean up the mess, including me.
They want to piece together a picture, a picture interested in history.
I wonder if the forgotten words are scattered among those fragments.
Or have been buried, but forgot to erect a monument.
Looking back, I suddenly saw the word.
Lying in the coffin of time, oh, that's my youth.
It is waiting for me to decorate, close, bury and commemorate it.