Sweet Hollow-Block Puffed-Rice Poetry

We play with words,

thoughts and rhymes;

We play with meters,

with matters that chime;

We play with elegy,

with verse and lines;

We play with tones

of musical sound.

We play with sorrow,

with earnest longing;

We ask questions

about unfamiliar beings;

We ink our longing for

what tomorrow will bring;

with no unyielding aim

to truly perceive its content.

We ask question with

no ambition to know.

We nourish our body

with no appetite to grow;

We eat our food

for it’s the reason to live;

Yes, we live because

of the food that it gives;

Not for the life that

we ought to achieve.

We speak just 
to make a sound;

We listen because

it is accepted as sound;

Ours ears are not trained

for hearing with sense;

The left and the right

both are drilled
 for nonsense;

Instilled on detecting

tickling mongering;

As in in-between

humor and rumor,

the only difference

is itching.

We speak of compassion

with no desire to help;

We speak of truth

with no effort to search;

We speak of substance

with arrogance and haught;

As if the quintessence

would glorify the boast;

And the foolish proud would

have any essence to toast;

When the final fall breaks

a nut-head to a post;

and realized that 
haughtiness is nothing 
but a naught.

We write song with

no desire to sing;

We sing songs without

no tonic content;

We dance not to praise,

to give thanks, to rejoice;

We dance to forget,
 to survive, and to 
hide the remorse;

We dance, O! At last,

we came into a dance;

 We should be thankful that

at least, we can still dance;

By all means let’s dance,

let’s groove into a tune;

even if it is just a rhythm

of a sweet hollow-block

puffed-rice song.