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Kristine Ong Muslim

Unstable Scenarios

Sorrow is just boredom left unattended.
It bleeds on the margins like someone’s
trail of broken nails clawing for a hold
while falling down a sinkhole. Say you find
your way out of a house of sorrow,
like a moth that finds its way to the light.
Will you finally quiet down and fold your
wings as if they don’t matter anymore?
Miles away, the beautiful crimes burn down
the continents. You and your paunch amble
towards the window, gaze at the small fires.
Your bloated form slumps on the chair.
On the streets below, a burning man writhes,
is constricted in the middle like the figure 8.
He stops flailing afterwards and shifts
to the unrepentant repose, the infinity ∞.