A perplexing labyrinth of understanding drift through my head,
So elusive I can never quite paint their shapes,
Thoughts induced by light that roam into the late night,
Mere illusion cast against the caves wall,
To fuel the youthful fire that burns in my breast.
Writing words already half-forgotten,
Like tales of old that must be renewed,
They are held captive in the chasm of my soul,
Only to be scattered across strangers,
Dispersed over the earths and moons,
This Sir’s tragic song, be sung
Of Backward thoughts and crowded garrets.
A spirits solemn yearning for conclusion,
Though there is no closure for something,
Already long, long forgot.
Dabbling thought &illusion does not a Poemnecessarily make...But it does here...Stellar imagework...Th' decorum, here, smacks of Dreamscape, & both it's disturbance & wonderment.Pristine structure, prevailing here, providing th' Reader w/a smooth mellifluous read...Fine overall craftsmanship, Sebastian''''''''''''''''''''''''F J R
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
...thoughtfull expression indeed........10