What do you do
when you can't get out,
infinite stretches of red & orange
rock,
shelves so jagged and intricate,
with fifty foot drops,
somebody chasing me,
or something?
is alerted by something else,
or someone...
and I am clambering across
a Ridley Scott film set,
for real,
I don't know what's best if
your following me...
here, where nothing can grow
or live,
life goes on and on in a similar
fashion,
I've been here a thousand times
before,
like getting up for work,
and the red itchy stress marks
blotch my face,
as red as a Santa Hat!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem