Xiolin (nguadai)

The ocean belched obsidian froth, vomiting vowels in saline spume. I gargled its guttural gloss and thought: diction drowns in deluge—lexicons liquefy when tides tongue their consonants through coral throats.

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Beneath the jagged grin of storm hums thunder, chains rattling hymns through clouds bruised black. Lightning licks sky into ribbons slick with blaze, and I drink its glare raw, lips salted bright, praying awe nailed wide against the molten jaw of night.

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If I could pause one moment today, it’d be when the sun hit the windows just right.

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Stars leaked down the throat of night like molten coins, dropping into dark jars of ocean. And I thought: wealth hoards in silence—it piles gold under black water, mocking hands that thirst for light they’ll never lift.

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