exhaustion fell on this dread,
like mold on these piano keys,
it stunk up the place, still i had
to investigate this electrical
storm, untill i at least isolate
this despondent dyke from killing
itself, and she cries becouse the
cows have no milk,
or the chords have no sound,
or this rain provides no drink.
I really like this one - very interesting imaging. avr
Interesting little gem, David...I especially liked the first two lines. Raynette
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
David, your recent ramp-up in more lucid dipiction of your awesomely unique style is like flies to the flypaper....Solid penning, my friend, as so many others on this site appear to be acknowledgeing... frank