Close to looking with words weaving a patch work of mess,
Or was it message, defining some sensed granular reality
As real as a question on the tip of the tongue
When it explodes, will you run?
Climbing back up your trellis to pull the covers close?
Something pure about baring all in a tempest
Sirens' calls and lashings, wax can't save me now.
Though my words traverse more tenuously then whimsically
Wrapping round icy warmth and rending smiles
Desiring only to peel back perfect petals
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem