3: 29
spent watching
YouTube,
like playing God,
or speeding up
my own neglect
of something
which I have left.
Slight changes
of light
betray
the secret,
or twitches
of ageing
heading
for death throws.
I can see
the whole thing
played out,
accompanied
by Muzak.
Young petals
too quickly
turn to dust.
Perhaps
I should just
brush it
under the carpet,
or keep
the memory.
It reminds
me
of the
skeletons
that I
should
have
removed
from my
garden.
Birds or worms
feed upon them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem