Pressure Poem by Richard Bunch
Pressure
Time pressing
the color of blood.
You want to scream
and arm again.
But that won’t do.
You know better.
It’s like leaving.
You don’t want to leave either.
Leaving is not
a solution.
Nor drink.
A false dilemma.
You find another choice
and begin to cherish.
Even this minute
might shape your dreaming,
enflesh your passing wisdoms,
those enchanters by the barn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/30/2024 5:11:56 PM # 1.0.0.1119
...a thoughtful expression indeed