Like moths, their pot of gold is indeed a bright one,
Full of triumph, fulfillment and light.
The only target in their existence,
The blinding source keeps their addictions well-fed.
Humanity endures the same,
When the light enhances their life.
All is pretty on the outside,
As cancer devours on the inside.
When the light overpowers their world,
The sudden pang as they embrace it for the last time.
Too hot to touch, it's fire,
Burning away the fine line.
The fine line - between success and a manic depressive,
More than their fair share of light.
They'll dig their early grave,
To make sure the light is out of their sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
hmm i dont know why but this reminds me of a song where sorrow filled of empty lives pointlessly sacrificing themselves for a purpose they think is almighty your still beating my poetry by uncombable distances