Regretting the death of careful tomorrows,
our ruptured todays, sad tattered futures lost.
winds rip like mouthfuls of razor teeth.
a bullet of hail, a face full of hurts.
long spaces of silence sting like hornets.
a disassociation of things not said
but said between dimensions.
the length, breadth and width of it linger like ghosts
calling through a hole in my mind
minding's not an option in this three ringed circus,
hyperbole and cliché do not suffice this surfit of angles.
within the echo chamber is a place of
degrading desecrated dissonance,
atonal and despairing.
wondering if my reality is yours.
and what is reality?
is it different for everyone?
we live in a place of mass hysteria
where we agree that this is the right reality,
a compromise to keep us sane.
the asylum is never far,
like a dark tower on the edge of reason
it waits for those who fall, whose reality is different.
still the hornets sting and buzz
spiders weave tales of magic
and we shout in a vacuum unheard
screams lost so as not to frighten the neighbours.
we are but one tune in the dotted rhythms of life
a coda or fugue blending with others.
still we stand on the outside
regretting the death of our careful tomorrows
and our ruptured todays.
maybe we should sing a different tune.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem