You mirror (not mirror exactly, but echo cho cho..) that flash
of hot tongue lash, swift as a simile in its bite, moving this
walking mess of indecision and (cold, cold) anxiety to tears
(and what(of the past present future) of the ghosts?)
Temper, temper you gotta lotta words as I do
and the lies and the falsities cascade like rolling credits in
my head. Of and not of this: trace the root back
to three then you have vulnerability
The science is there: all neurological and treatable
but in this labyrinth there are not only minotaurs:
there are spectres and the boogeyman - fear, or
so I've read. You as a metaphor, I as the
hyperbole. We move in ways unknown to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.