One cell cringing
in commotion;
Sauropods succumbing
to gravity,
protecting doomed offspring;
The King of all Writers,
fishing in guts for plays,
dying unknown;
Then you, hobnobbing,
howling in torture
for things I cannot
or will not
do.
My shell is cracked;
I am here alone in a world
of grief. But I ply,
for though the pain is overwhelming,
in the end it is brief.
Breaking a plastic pen in two
is too difficult
to separate from the field of pain.
And too neat.
Melancholy is the purest form of the word. Lovely writing, as always, my friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
dark meanderings. I've been there, often. I sense you might just need a (((hug))) so here's one for you.