Through the Slit

The lofty unceasing grace of night is blowing through my veins right now, 

blinding my sight. 

Words of promises broken are coming one by one, 

keeping their slippers on the mattress outside of my room. 

The silence speaks so much louder than words of promises broken. 

Andreyevna Gorenko was my ancestor, and I am a proud scion, 

no longer murmuring 

"I am not yet cured of happiness" like her. 

I am cured of happiness. 

Finally. Point one. 

But the the ghost inside my cupboard, 

garbed in divine reflection, 

is trying to come out fiercely. 

I am probably nothing 

nothing but an amalgamation of souls. 

Souls like coins -dropping, plinking, clinking; this interest gives life. 

Sadly, on this sad night of July, 

I have depleted my reserve. 

It's too cold to sleep and 

too hot to think. 

Before I give up, time will give up. Point two. 

Hiding emotions, in the garb of jester act, 

bid adieu to love. 

Oh my dear love, what wouldn't I give up to make you feel loved ? 

And no, don't think so highly of me. 

I have always wanted to become a worn out-

marked with filths, dusts, whispers, and secrets. 

I am going to split myself, 

an trenchant slit is all I need.

I am going to spread myself into two different chunks. 

May the darkness inside me disappear through the slit finally. 

May I cure of happiness, family, love and you. 

I want to build a maze, 

there my two parts will play together, at long last. 

The father vehemently searching for his son, 

but he won't be found. 

Free. Point decider.