Twilight fills this mind with stars of universal
platitudes, decorating themselves and hiding on
shelves.
Portrayals, never-ending, inside of picture
frames of elegant timelessness, ending with
vacant stares and bereft hearts.
Taking along bits and pieces of forgotten talent,
balancing on edges of mountainous abysses, lying
upon far-fetched ideas of togetherness.
Living only on patches of corduroy, scratching
quietly, letting quiet rectitude find it's way
in foreign lands of tomorrow - yesterday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem