My heart will be handed to me
riddled with teethmarks, drained of its blood
I shall retreat, cropped Rapunzel,
to an ivory tower
not used yet
to hide from the pain
of stone forming
around me again.
Should have known
little butterfly, moth to the flame
that the moment
though glorious
would dissolve to the same
tired excuses all mixed through with lies
that would sink in the
Dead Sea if launched
like a plan
sea as salty as tears
from the poor ravaged soul
that believed in the storybook ending
vouchsafed to none of the dreamers
who wilt in the noonday of truth
that undoes the darkest of secrets
like grapes being pressed to explain
what the vintage will be
will it dance in the glass
reflect red on the pain
in the heart torn to shreds
by the early abortion
of an embryo dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem