It all comes from wanting and not having
that indeterminate something
that'll make us all, once again, whole.
Every failure is a mask unwillingly peeled back.
Tornados are we that have hollowed-out insides
on a path of destruction lingering to unfold.
Unwilling to collapse, taking nothing at face value
good or evil, it all pivots at right angles.
It triangulates our position, yet we are lost-
heart-fragments in Bermuda's flotsam floating
in some remote stupid hope, our souls will
find the buoyancy to one day again float.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem