I feel like my soul is caught in a dozen storms,
like a desert storm erasing the norms,
trying to turn convention on its head,
and though I live I'm dead.
A ghost walking; a ghost talking,
the undertaker stalking,
trying to drag me to hell,
lock me in the Devil's cell.
But I fight with last breath,
to escape the clutches of death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely write, absorbing imagery.