top of page

No Strings

Writing by Michael Wu. Artwork by Yury Aleksanyan.

The first wild grass grows on silver feet

of child enchanted by mother’s tales,

smoke where fairies breathe.

Tread, tread and mark of the boy

leads past the grove into trees.

Young, the warlock, swallows the honey

and hills deserted of yellow wheat.

And the seasons mock him

follow him to the home of unnamed rye.

Like infant, the years lie to the sunken groves

old sparrow cries.

To where drawn knives,

and blades his father made in war,

now grown only half a heart,

only glass lungs, false blood.

Wed, wed each toes to sand,

and mourn her to the burning sea.

Her memory rests in the meadowsweet,

gray faces buries in banshee screams.

And midnights loom the orphan,

lone in darkness weaves,

gold woe he in pouring tides

left hairs twisted inside.

Lamps quiver the seeker of hidden gates,

calm hand the scales.

Fire feeds on yet three darker straits,

Like sisters, dare shaken the sword

old dragon flies.

Treasure in these hells is

where eyes find, innocent fear

graves the consigned, to fiery leap

Dread, dread, one travels here,

lost sings the caverns into sleep.

363 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All



bottom of page