Beyond the sunset where
the first shadows of twilight appear, heaven:
a boiling fire-line
If my hands weren't so stained
by choice, by reason
I'd endeavor to reach for God
who quietly lingers out of touch tonight.
Life is a death sentence.
I've accepted fate and pray
as I learn to walk the final mile
I will earn virtue.
The patients of saints.
the love of those whose legacy is a cross
I've bared since birth.
I write these mere extensions of self
in sincere hope
that tomorrow's generation may grow
from the knowledge that honesty
was once the forefront expression.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i was pondering this last night: if everyday we kill ourselves, then would these scribblings not be our suicide notes? i like this one alot. glad you posted it! Jake