So here I am, I guess, a line without a plot,
assize without a size, a stroke within a jot.
The intern of a box, some breath into an air,
that fragments to a melody in skirmish with a care.
Designs on absent memories, entwined in love crochet,
sublimely mentioned whispers on the cusp of life’s bouquet.
An essence dreamed for selfish hope, then danced across the sun,
a promise, touched upon your lips, when passion had begun.
That fleeting flicker’s eyeing eye, a warmth of floating day,
dressed up in every maybe world, that’s tricks our lives away.
And In the back of beyond, lost, where rivers gently wend,
I may be someone else’s thought, to glance around that bend.
That losing token talisman, dropped to the gutters dam,
I may be each, but could be still, just everything I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem