Way back drowning in narcissism so obviously,
Laughing at this week's tragedy,
He's rolling in water,
drinking a bottle or two,
In apathy.
Way back sitting on the edge of the lake,
Praying to God, talking to a snake,
Staring into the blue sky to see a red hole,
Inside he sees a man and his soul and the bike he once stole.
Now out of the ground comes his catharsis,
A tree of cyanide, permanently ripe,
It seems to grow, into his mind.
Dismissing every forged apology,
He kills his sociopathy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem