her dead pennies name these wounds
numbered, instructed to
bind, as a catalyst
into the drain
we watch in faux horror as
whispers through panes of glass
settle and subtle rays
shine towards introphase
i came home as leaves are dead
dying amidst the strands
folicle size of fates
hands on my dinner plate
these miricles mean there is truth in here
somewhere below this fear
somewhere the sun has set
we wear our own regret
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem