Weaving through this chaos offered by fate,
realizing death has set this day as my date.
Torn away from this slowly rotting flesh,
one last glance, one last solitary caress.
Drifting above to the creation of birth,
clinging to the lines held down by earth.
How pitiful.
Wesley Hall - 08/28/05
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem