I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged.
If you can believe it.
Stupidly and innocently the rope was
Slipped over my head.
The waggon was pushed out
Suspending me twisting slowly turning
With untied hands.Can you see me?
I was as good as gone.
You'll have to believe me.
Take my word.
You can't look it up.
Seriously. There is not accounting.
Nobody recorded, reported, cropped, shopped or scanned
It.
All the same, I was hanged.
Left like Clint. Really.
(so ironic)
But then again, we were opaque.
Not like now.
Not as many EMFs, MRIs, X-rays and lenses.
Not nearly.
There aren't enough spirits or souls
To be snatched away because
Everything is reported.
Everyone should shutter.
If you think with a click you're good to go,
You're good as gone.
As reported.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem