Hot soup and cold bread
mark the paths of my day.
Almost mocking me,
Panera gives french onion
a bad name.
My day has gone
from good to poor
in a single heartbeat;
continues to sink.
I let myself fall, again,
only to have it end as usual.
Hot soup and cold bread,
you are a poor substitute.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Figurative language con sometimes be a good illustration if used properly. I thought this one was. GW62