There was always a shimmer in the bottle,
Whilst the ceiling has become my other half;
Cobwebbed and stewing in a red afterglow.
The street lights flicker toward the surface;
Collections of portraits;
The harlequin framed Jezebel
Has become a Trinity,
White oleander blossoms
That left each other,
One by one,
In search of fairer weather;
If only to wither away in the early hours.
The indefinite salute.
A sharp bag that dislodges the dirt
Above the door frame,
A rain soaked misdirection
That travels onward through the atmosphere.
It was always the little things.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem