He voluntarily put on the shirt of Nessus
He knew about the poison in the fabric and what it would do to him
He was part of the cycle and this was conscious knowledge
He felt guilty, he felt untouchable, he felt this was perfection
He knew there was no point in running
If it wasn't this, he would meet his end in some similar fashion
So when she handed him the garment, he didn't even bother searching her eyes with suspicion
The poison burned him and he felt less like a god and more like a man
When he tried to remove the shirt, his skin came off like print off a wet newspaper
The panic passed and the pain he wanted prompted him to build a funeral pyre
And onto a pyre started with the spark of an ego that sustained itself through victimhood
He dove headfirst
The fire burned off his martyr's flesh
All that was left was the melted middle
The outside shell was naturally flammable
The inside shell was small, damp, squishy
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem