The nonentity spends its time
in the mud at the bottom of a cliff
while the waves break
and the broken shells complain of
the chasm between it and reality
standing paper thin and yawning
like an open mouth of canyon
collecting red wax on the sides
melting like oil which has bubbled air
into the atmospheric laxity of solar wanderers
headed by Icarus the dimwit
who knows neither fire nor heat
which can burn
limbs and disfigure the face of rocks
given time and air.
So these are the nonentity's choices
whether to stand or fall
to be mythical or real
to be blood or paper
be two-dimensional or four-dimensional
be pitied or feared Machiavellian style
or just laze and eat and not worry
about things left to dry in the sun
becoming wrinkled and unusable
like the dead leaves brushed off the pavements
to become organic material to start
the never ending cycle again
and deprive the universe of its scalding logic
where darkness and cold ends it all
like a wound that never heals and lasts forever
in the memory of skin and artery
and long tipped neurons which gape into a past
filled with sad reminiscences of time remembered
and time sucked into a whirlpool of love and death
over a trillion times rejected and fruitless
and successful advents ended as sourly and forlorn as
a cracked turtleshell which has not lived or died.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A wonderfully worded and deep poem, Ripper. Thanks
Thankyou for your kind words Kelly.Kelly.