deep in the pit, there it does sit,
waiting for the hole to fill,
patiently waiting till its time to kill,
there it does sit deep in its pit.
once the hole has risen,
its released from its prison,
there and then,
it comes alive,
spreading black black dust,
down the alleyways of my arms,
tracing the moterways upon my palms,
eyes flicker,
twigs twitch,
the itch of time,
is tended to
and all feelings,
internal and external,
are
silenced.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem