There’s a face in the mirror
And I’m not sure who it is
It comes right at me like a gun fighter’s fist
Charging fast, and rapid nearly grazing the tip
Between the span of nerves; Hook line and miss
While there’s a veil thinly pealed
Beneath a rock in a skull
Gazing through the parallax of two empty dots
I try to call out but there’s no room in the dark,
Amber converges in deliriums exhaust
The Shellac dries under heats condensations
But the sink is gorged in a gelatinous flood
While a frail monotone
Splintered trembling whisper
Sutured mouths rings in the tropic of cancer
As Wings shackled flyby in fire pits trail
The Porter calls out for my Gordian vest
I lie to live and keep all my threads colour best
While growing in the marrow
Of the puppet at the pulpit
Is an epiphany of chemical pain
Coursing the narrow gaps in my veins
Wondering which role I play
When the play is exactly the same
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Woah intense and sublime! U seem to see thru d mirror with a poetic evaluating microscope. I cant but help admire grandiloquence perhaps coz i use it myself. Kudos!