a vessel built of echoes,
swallowing the world’s fevered hymns
to exhale them as ghostless smoke.
The Artist is a temple of flesh and thought,
a chalice drinking deep the world’s chaos,
yet ever-spilling, ever-scouring its own walls.
A porous monolith,
swallowing the storm whole,
only to sweat it out as sacrament.
A sieve of stars,
a wound that heals as it bleeds.
A throat choked with light,
yet singing the dark to sleep.
陳品陶 Chen Pin Tao, 2025