I feel the cancer of this room
Pull me into seven circles
And entwine some ferial mood
Until my souls mercurial
This heaven is, its own made prison
Rewarding restless coloured passion
Seeping thoughts with pleasure lesions
That extinguishes my pallid talents
My mansions poor of what I'm not
A privy respect for solitude
Where wisdom learned cannot be bought
Experience from forbidden fruit
If I should drift inside my storm
That harkens to a tempest rage
Then you are free to shut the door
And leave me to my red delight
For no companions do I share
My existence or its joys
Spending time alone on dares
With my loves in silent voids
Through the window is the world
Of a place I do not see
I wish I understood the part
That made me a human being
Now I rest inside my room
And rest until my tomb
I thought it was good, really good. Meant to comment the night you wrote it but there were other things to which I had to attend. Hope you're feeling better.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Not sure how to interpret this one, but it sounds kind of morbid, with a very sad overtone. I wish your room were not as melancholic. You deserve much better.