Savannah | Teen Ink

Savannah

November 30, 2015
By RexHsieh GOLD, Shanghai, Other
RexHsieh GOLD, Shanghai, Other
15 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.


I’m unbound. I’m ticking in the vacuumed jar
with sealed corners, top to bottom to all other sides,

looking into the greyish jungle, solid like steps of time.
I’m audible, only to myself; so, as time churns

waves crash around my head to remind me of
every second I take to think, to answer, to regurgitate

the thought of the one night that came before I realised—
and we were in a Savannah-themed kid’s park

just because we wanted to do something special & childish.
The images are still sharp & clear: the walls were graffitied with

memories of elephants & personality on the grassland: other than the lake
in the dead centre of the walls, sitting deep-blue and banal,

the disjointed strokes, the curly-haired reflections & outlines of kids,
the misspelt words—(“love” became “lave”, or

a tragic mistake)—all of them that seems so prudently calculated
(yet really wasn’t) disturbed the masterful artist

who’d always wanted that spontaneity. And, the more we stayed
the sharper the costs felt to me: what I have kept in me all these time,

locked not with keys but near-amorphous words & images
of a man wearing silver-studded suit & tie on an altar, looking

happy & smiling with the Gospels of Love spreading over his lips.
That inaudible image sounds the future inside my head, tries to

replicate the tolling bell in the background, and breeds
endless anxiety in my mind. The procession goes on; the man

never stopped for a second. All’s in silence.
All I can feel now is the recurring image of that savannah

so naive, yet so real, pretending itself a grey jungle
that knows I can’t quite see through it yet—

like a vicarious impulse I can’t quite bind myself onto yet.



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