Daydreams start their exercise,
mind wanders through
the future and the past
just touching down at times
to see the view of old love,
wrinkled in the corner,
cast off thoughts
that could have been
all ripe and bursting,
grapes of passion
turned to wrath
and vinegar
no sweet silk honey
sliding down the throat
just the stinging scent
of charcoal, gentle mist...
of smoke?
Oh gods, I've burned
the toast again!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem