by Justin Teoh
dear ______, whoever you may be
forgive us if our impressions are misguided
even with art millennia, Your picture is still fragmented and
only visible from a side; between my raised hand
we ourselves are still scrolling for the next episode in personal mysticism
preach Love against new laws that are really old words better put
but if old skin don’t grow white beards
spare karma if Your inspiration turns into a power argument
lest we forget: grace floats less in a bunker
per-chance You hang the hermit shroud for a pair
of nikes to go with our asphalt and concrete
we will extend our blimp of kindness and give a cup
of dewdrop from under a bright tent. with the cold air out
we will not cry rain during the holiday stay
keep the change, as long as You occupy our form
teach us to see through the jazz haze all You hold grand
so that by the time we meet again we have projected them
to other life stories, to which You set ablaze collectively.
take a glimpse and that art will be no different than the mountain lake