Blue and thick and cold and blind.
No point screaming through.
Waiting endlessly for mind
To discover one more You.
Prison is another reason.
Future's just another myth.
Past is gone. But Present's greased on
My insides like awkward filth.
Red and thin and hot and loud.
Running uselessly away.
Shoved and flushed into a cloud
Made of paper, wine and blade.
Noise produced by liquid matter
Clogs my ears with painful plug.
Prayer comes and goes, latter
Seems to crush me like a bug.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem