She
as she leans upon the withered tree
and she doesn't mind
they
as they lurk behind their woeful schemes
their deepest emptiest dreams
their aggrieved tree
and sorrowful
they mind
Our hearts
as they are better apart
our intelligence
as it's true only when we waste and loose our laugh
our thoughts
pure and weak
wicked
only when we are apart
Forget your hands
and warmth, regret it, it's not yours
our thoughts
pure and dark
only when we are apart
Our warmth fake and trusted till death
Fake and needy
Only when we hold hands
Forget hands
Forget your heart
God did not invent any such thing
God
did not invent any heart
we, as we are made of nothing
our thoughts
pure and deliberate
never enough
never straight
never done
perfection as we touch
when we are about to go mad
Lonely as we stand
Forget to hold hands
Perfection derives from what you are
Don't involve stranger's hands
I'm afraid then
Perfection is not about to last
But to tear apart
Perfect at last
Perfect
and alone
at last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem