My future is vague at the flux of this trouble—
a puddle, it ripples with each splashing drop—
fear locks me in place yet my eyes dart and swivel
at muddled gray middles of converging chance—
my gaze finds a path! a fleet arrow that flees on
a brash spree of freedom which just urged my stance—
but lines in their patterns—those arrows and clamor—
makes cavalier morrows, beseeching, seem bland—
for the vexating rubble from where I call trouble
forms patchwork so subtle I ere had not scanned.
—stopped short! —
what strange role I play!
a selector of outcomes so far from my sight!
—caught awed! —
why, this rolling day
is a ship of such mystery I captain through the night!
what bergs? what land?
what progenite shore?
do I near as commander,
as naïve explorer?
—sweat coats my hand
—hot ice fills my core
at reality's candor.
Beauty is horror.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem