My Demeanor Poem by Kctony Xtopher Nkwocha
My Demeanor
A times it looks aptly open
Desert-like, so dry of life.
I wonder if am steepen
Or just dwelling on internal strife.
“What does he feel? ”
“Who the hell is he? ”
“Is he striking a deal? ”
“With his mind’s settee? ”
No one talks, just speculating
Mind’s owner offers no explanation
I, either am degenerating or regenerating
The casuals of my wavering deviation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/10/2024 9:10:41 AM # 1.0.0.1119
