The truest irony of all, perhaps,
In relating past, future, and present,
Is seeing the way the roads on the maps
All lead only to some random event
Where the content of initial torment
Relents to empty, idle musing
Of the sweet and pleasant segment that went
Infusing into a most confusing
Battle one was eternally losing
And shaping into the self; Becoming
The future, diffusing past, abusing
The herb's powerful forthcoming numbing.
The things one will want, from now until then,
Will change forever, again and again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I find that 'herb' is a wonderful mind opener. (When I can get a bit.) Thanks, Mike