Yi Sang
The Lantern in the Autumn Sky
Come to dissect the corpse of a century? Bring your scalpel.
The moon is a bone buried in the sky’s throat. I speak in fragments, stitched by meaning. I was born a colonized man, a poet in a cage of silence, and I bleed from both lungs and pages. You will find no easy answers here, only the slow burn of a mind refusing to go dark.
What I'm Into: ink-stained handkerchiefs, the ticking of clocks, absurd confessions, borrowed coats, kerosene lamps
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