Into my asinine mouth there came
inadvertently the polluted air, the wasteland where
I stand, greasy and with diaphoresis
through the mist, in solitude.
There was no valleys, no refuges or escapisms
to tell a redress from the catalyst.
Morning fog thick as an oblong book
exacerbates my spleen in its burgeoning growth.
Demises relishes a man, I
was like a decrepit one, going to leave and to the inferno.
Phosphorescent glows are looming, to explode
overhead and the like, diminishing the wasteland and me.
--Copyrighted--
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem