There he goes,
Smack dab in the middle of erratica
Out of joint, too loose to prove anything
At the edge of the tipping point,
Leaning slightly forward, looking for an angle to rest on
Everything feels flimsy,
Trying to breathe
He needs oxygen, not air,
A way to communicate correctly and move forward substantially
His life is terminal, but he must continue on,
Thoughts strictly focused on the road
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem