The lost live in another world,
their tragedy is stitched togethere
by the hands of our silent god, and
seperation,
isolation,
confindement,
and a painted white door
that has blood on it, your
blood, my blood, still he keeps
his silents, , , and me, i walk
to the edg, look down, and
wisper one more step, just
one more fu cking step.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
daring, tragic. playing for a prime-time dream. love, sjg