My faint white wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
The clothes are on the inside,
Cotton, some silk, housing legions of you.
I stand choosing, indecisive,
Combinations cluttering my mind;
Colours and kind blinding those eyes
That powder into black sand
And put space, that deep desert,
Between my right ear and my left.
My head emptied: death to life to death.
Frozen.
Meanwhile, yellow-striped moths
Crawl out your mouth and mine too,
Line after line, not a few; trillions.
They eat, feast on evening suit to the right
And darned brown cape on the left, even the least
They bring to inexistence, their evening dish.
To drape, I wish, on beggar's garb, I wish.
I'm stood staring at my
Empty wardrobe, no say left;
I am right naked,
Exposed to esposure
And nothing.
I am right naked Exposed to exposure And nothing Wow. This piece is amazing. I like how it is doused slightly with humor which intensifies the feeling of reading it. You are very talented!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
those moths must have been really fat after that feast ;) another great write