it's a very dangerous place to be
when all you can hear is the sound
of your own voice
and the violin drones in the background
playing mute to the tune
of your own blank canvas
and the box of the sound of you
gets smaller
and the white bleak spaceless noise
gets louder
until there's nothing
but you collapsed in on you
(which is collapsed on you in turn)
and you find yourself
in the comfortable
straightjacket grip
of your own custom, self-designed,
iron maiden
(that is, your mind)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem