Two planetoids caught in the gravity well of your black hole.
Nearby,
So too,
A spinster, enchanted, enthralled, entombed.
(For Odin's sake release her)
Supported by a Harriden
You hold an old crone in your arms.
Now a baby
Cackling pretender,
False idol worshiper,
You run to catch, but cannot hold.
Your mote too obvious,
Your future oblivion.
FYI for you're insane!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem