I stole it from myself.
Now I wake up to a witch in the mirror.
A drab future for the esoteric
because we don't have any
No matter how many
We take. So stone that it should pain me...
eventualy but this high that my heartlessness give me
is all too damging that
I find comfort in it.
I need more of what I stole from myself
because it is dwendling fast. And
no dire need of old out-dated virtue
will stop me from taking more...
But when it's gone... I will just steal yours.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem