I imagine
your tired
earth,
but who
isn't
I mean
eternity,
without
a world,
or another
word,
is daunting,
a frozen
sentence
of skulls
dangling
over
your infinite
bed,
unless
of course,
we wake
up somewhere
else,
or on an
antiseptic
aluminium table,
with alien
fingers pressing
you down,
like a button,
stop! ! ! !
I imagine
there
won't be
much of anything
anywhere anyway,
I just feel
like that
crumbling
sense of why
bother?
I now tear
the pages
away
that used
to uplift me,
envision
myself,
lying on
a deserted beach
face down
with a A4 sheet
crammed
into my mouth,
with heavy grains
of sand clinging
to my wet eye lids,
and sea water
running
in,
then out...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem