On porcus aortus I weigh
as carotid press comforts fear.
Short-lived assurances falter, though.
There's no fail-safe,
my net an abandoned deity.
Overtures now, smack of
death-bed confessions.
But trust in porcus aortus
and maker of pace,
not Maker, leaves
naked exposure
to terrifying void.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
But trust in porcus aortus and maker of pace, not Maker, leaves naked exposure to terrifying void... death., life, and faith all depicted so well. tony