the slow art of breathing bitter

Missing

In this quiet town,

down the unknown lane,

in the broken bricks and stone—I will disappear.

The green birds will turn grey—

In the mist of sorrow,

In the dance of death,

In the laughter of the ruthless.

And I will flee.

I will flee in the wild search of comfort,

and reach to the false shade of black—

Where the plumeria burns, 

Happiness runs

away, away from all—and I remain missing.