You won't feel The Darkness
through my fingertips.
It's a slow process.
It's eventual, hardly beautiful.
You won't notice your own suffocation
with your eyes fixed on the clouds.
Distraction has its graces.
It's eventual, hardly noticeable.
You won't hear your petty thoughts
in my glass jar.
I watch them close.
It's experimental, hardly sentimental.
You won't call me lovely
in the morning
when I can't pull The Sun out of my hat.
It's delusional, hardly magical.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem