Certificates of learning hung on walls, undeservedly portraying
a trust of unknown expanse.
Tired of all the explanations, excuses, renditions for power
and control, hating to have to fight just to attain a semblance
of self.
Time awaits nothing, dozens of thoughts flower and bloom,
ready to be placed on newly dug graves.
Figuring totals of sensations, balanced on edges, falling,
feeling numb within.
Closing out the world indefinitely, riding on blades of demise,
holding securely to idle ideas of death.
Invoking skeletons to preach of lust and desire, lost memories
lie in piles of bones, decaying like dirt piled on graves of remembrance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem