11th May 2010
I
Day is dead
And night grows old
Yet the road still lies there
Paved with gold
On the walk home
my thoughts sink too deep,
Of this world and the next.
Is there no respite, no sleep?
I must ask you this
I must ask you this...
Is this what we strive for
An incessant ticking and tocking
The banging and knocking
Of death at our door.
The tyrannical clock
Hangs overhead
Till I end up in a glass box
For one and all to see
Dim lights illuminating the hollows
Where my eyes used to be
II
Fog hangs in the air
Swaying with the breeze
Like a dead mand feet
At the gallows.
Tyres grazing asphalt
Then
Silence all round
Whilst everyone sleeps, pure bliss
We all know this time of night
Is the perfect time to reminisce.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem