She stands against a
mossy tree;
it is green and raw
the moss climbs each length
with unflagging insistence
Her arms wrap around
its trunk;
grey and thick
founded on the ruddy dirt
by stalwart roots chained to earth
She is everything
I wanted to be;
she is far more intelligent a being
than a person of my degree,
as she stands against the mossy tree
I imagine I should
stand there;
against a mossy tree
an artist of machination
begging to paint me with oils
And I imagine I would
agree to stand;
be painted with a wicked hand
the scheme to reverse my pure-wrought soul
into something I could not comprehend
Then sadly I would stand
against that tree
beside a shallow bank
blue, turquoise crystal, shallow
banks torpid with my tears
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is the sort of poem i sometimes write. i love the end. brilliant, thanks