squeezing
what dropp is left
from the mind
it is not blood
nothing like
pus, it is air,
this emptiness
that keeps
giving off
what i have not
seen before,
it is crying to be
let out, so i may
give room for
the unknown,
the mysterious
and glorious,
the x and y,
until there is
meaning, a
solution, a
redemption.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem