I usually do my praying work at night

under pallid moonlight

Assuming myself in that deep piety,

praying with my hands holding tight.

I wondered, yesterday, in vanity

If you could hear my praying so far

from my eastern mar.

Jesus

I wonder if I am a qualified believer so long,

Wearing my traditional China silk

I do not want to do anything wrong.

Bleeding, burn from my broken heart

I pray to you in my bloated bulk

and kneel

on my shallow spring bed just like an art.

I was in my bare foot, yesterday,

of that stigma inundated my light,

Praying in despair

to sew my separate soul right,

Crying in muteness,

Silent, weak as small toe

Wish you could perceive my woe.

Once

I wished to find my way in this indefatigable world

To fit in

my wild exotic eyes my foreign brown skin and my slim eastern hand

So I pray hard to hold

My mama’s heritage and my family’s grand.

Heard enough promises, empty and fake

Now, I wish to hold something else, in faith

The reason of my self existence, my strong belief

Or if foreign is my only sin.  

Jesus, I wish you could hear,

Flatten my raven head at here.  

Jesus, praying

thousand miles away from your divined land.

Disbelief or deterrent

Existence omnipresent even world’s gent.

You are not there.

Heaven

soprano saxophone shines in grand

plays songs of Allman Brothers Band 

People move like swirled snakes

Flesh fall, eye blind,

Music flows on you like cherry cream cake

Light dizzy, dream drain.

My praying comes

From another land, yearning

From a boy’s bloody backbone.

Jesus , can you hear,

from a time gathered by believers.

I wonder

would I be a better follower

Were I born in a time for believers.

Or whether

In sedation shines still the cathedral’s glamour

When my world is weathered

By truth and lies, books boosting briar.

I try to find out the answer by praying,

At night, every night, I am floundering,

To beseech, for the retention not killing for keen.

Jesus, I am praying hard, not to be plunged by a peen.

Yesterday

My teacher told me, in rage,

We were living in substantive, secular, no sage,

Jesus, she told me not to suppose

The actual hue of your rose.

Clutched my religion tie, she

Inhibited my follow,

Of your footsteps, no

Disciple in color of yellow.

Jesus

People, told me about, inveterate Truth,

Humans, enter and out, by path,

From Bocca della Verita to San Francisco,

Chase after glimmers of truthfulness, and then go.

One who tried to grab and grasp thousands years ago

Now disgruntle and desolate forego

their beliefs.

They call it relief.

I wonder

Have we been able to survive in speciousness

When heavy hat shadows Luna brightness.

Or whether

People flag away in fiasco, fade faithlessly in reality

In a time of collapse and ephemerality.

I can not can not tell

Jesus, when perished flowers pulverized by sorrow

Scars burning in dirty yellow I see people

groaning like brown corpse of that bitten worm

Twisting out of a chrysail

Last night I hear

Lunatic screaming

Dieu Aue Le Munde Est Injuste

Monsters hunting, People dying

Jesus.

Jesus

I am still holding my hands tight and well

Tonight, still believe in love and real

In rosy dew, body rue

Pray to be protected under your glamour and you,

Clasp me like fragrant tide,

so that I will not be drifted away in wild wide

When believers desert, Big Ben ring.

Standing still on this foreign land,

I am praying to you, Jesus

Thousands miles away from your divinity,

just praying.