You're the morphine shot.
You are my own personal high.
You call yourself comfort,
my doctor calls it euthanize.
You are every moment,
every perfect memory,
you are rapid and fill my mind
on the thresh hold of dying.
You're the fine cuisine.
You're the richest meal I've ever known.
You're the last meal I eat,
before I realize this is death row.
You're a landscaped walk,
to my own Auschwitz.
You are the roses that hide
the smell of death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem