...there is a burning bleeding in my soul...
i am cut, like paper snowflakes from my youth...
- but held up to the light of the window of self, the complicated beauty of the folding and dissecting
...are missing..instead only a deep yawning crevasse, an ache with no balm..
..and darkness my constant companion, beckons me to come 'shush', and lie down on the fertile banks of this river of pain-
just for a while..fickle promises glibly dripping into my weary parched psyche...
not today my friend...today while i may writhe and silently weep
i will do so in the light of the meadows who's names escape me
in which i travel knowing only the echo of old battles, with the stench of dying to perfume the air
rather than the wildflowers' scent so light and innocent..
..not today..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem