Bleak is the sufference,
this dragging from midnights other side,
when the hollow of Eliot's words
consume me.
Stuffing myself with straw
;
as I struggle to drag the realities of you.
Yet never more caressing
the realities of my need
to consume the rose with fire.
I pour the ashes into tumblers
to stir,
the dissonnace of a bitter wine.
Drinking with distaste the rotwood
of words not yet concieved,
to distinquish between the fantasy
of you,
and the reality of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I miss reading your poems. Its good..