Green flurries of folly flip and scurry about
into my tender grasp so that I can hold them
and mold them into the precision I need
They bring a balance to the fallacy of plight and despite
and level out the scored tendencies of flame and passion
until I scream to be let out from the formication of sin
There on the evening I light my folly like a fuse
and step once more outside my shedding skin
standing heady in the moonlight I feel my fleeting breath
Thinking of the trinkets of my burning life of ruts
I watch the clouds descend and bear me with them into dark
singing songs of tempting righteousness and sorted human death
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow, this one is a tapestry of expression that melds mechanical thinking and fun visuals. Worth every 10 it gets.