Black-clad, beady eyed mourners
Flock around my child-sized coffin
Clawed hands tear at paper walls,
Desperate to ressurect what's long dead
Shackling chains to chilled flesh
As if animation breeds life
Futile attempts to play god,
I didn't accept a packaged destiny
Beyond the madness, out of reach
Stands a single form in white
Removing bonds of expectation
And casting them aside
The crows don't turn as they fall,
Intent on their mad mission,
They say nothing as I walk away;
Too busy trying to bring me back
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem