Somewhere, a room falls into sterility.
We sit there, blank faces surgical
tools minus scrub and garb.
Who will make the first cut? Who can?
Here no-one is the most qualified.
And so, we wander without walking.
I catch the butterfly, wing-eyes fluttering
open and shut cases. You check
your chapbook for ever-creasing lines.
We bury ourselves in silences,
ships in relentless storm,
fold into endless fold. Therein
lies the horror of life, perpetual:
hunter and the trap, fruit and the tree.
Mother’s carrying another child –
and so is everyone else.

Filed under: Original, Poetry


A member of Singapore-based writing collective /stop@BadEndRhymes ("/s@ber"), Valen dwells in the swamp of poetry. He has been published in various publications, including Anxious Poets Society, Eunoia Review and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. He has performed his work at the Arts House, the Singapore Art Museum, and in various dingy bars.

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