When hopelessness or passion's throes ignites us,
lost emotion casts confusion everywhere.
When hatred of our flesh's prison grates us,
how much easier is forgetting that we care?
Where we turn to in the furnace glare is telling,
whether up or in is more than circumstance.
Where we run to seeking comfort is our heart's truth
just a cry for absolution's withered chance.
Do we run the risk of giving up the certain
for subjective hells of sanity and science?
Do we easily forget how fast we're broken,
that we've never been a race for self reliance?
Is salvation such a dangerous conclusion
can we not believe the father or the wraith?
Is creation just a fallable illusion
isn't lack of proof a tete a tete with faith?
It's funny where the arguments can take us,
hither tither, yonder yore, or anywhere.
It's funny how, when sanity starts slipping,
we're occupied with poetry and prayer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem