The heart pounds, the building pressure pumps tears outward til they pool precariously at the eyelid's edge. It's difficult to swallow, hair stands erect but the skin perspires. Color drains from the knuckles. The diaphragm forgets... to contract, the lungs... suffocate... from negligence. Patience is a lost cause, it has desiccated like the mouth. Nothing to sustain it, no more words to say.
CRACK
Bone? Heart? Mind? It's difficult to determine the source, as the dissonance seems global. And yet, the sand falls grain by grain, funneled through the hourglass just as it always has.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Although I love how vividly this piece is written, there are so many things which can cause a person to feel all these things you have so perfectly depicted. I guess what I'm wondering if it is meant to be left up to the reader on how to interpret why the writer is feelings these things?