We spend our days in poor poetry.
Drifting in and out of consciousness
Just simple hallucinations
And a breakdown of rules.
Burning Bridges,
Counting Stitches.
It always turns out the same way.
It’s just twisting words.
Curved and bent.
Sinister.
And the memories,
Of lonely streets
Brushing into my skin.
Stroke by stroke.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem