I have a creeping suspicion
that life is a collection of no
in a container of yes.
I have a certain superstition
that involves truth (death's ally)
where truth is seen as an unlucky end.
And all the conspiracies
are coincidences to each other
mutually exclusive in their bumbling
A chance once had
is broken by truth (death's minion)
and mended by belief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This has a sonnet qualit t it wherr the reader could almost inser teir own lines after the second stanza. A wonderful piece of writng Michael. I am glad that you have posted on this site.