Eyes force open…alert…aware.
Legs, restless with the clutches of dawn.
Sky still sobs frozen droplets to glass…
Resting still on a woodland lawn.
November rain was falling; pale brown remnants were calling…
Shrieking sorrow long dead and dried.
It started with a will, and a wisp…
Bearing crisp from his sorrowful name.
Companions of mahogany and cedar nooses,
But never once menacing from any range.
Where everything is always the same…
Weeping for a solemn change.
Bloodshot windows of forlorn reveries…
Lingered temptation from beyond closed eyes…
Something amiss, something off balance,
Something tempting beyond exposed eyes.
I remember the knife, as it so glimmered,
Resting motionless between cracks of the counter.
Dull, rusted, sending a sorrowful echo…
In some pile of glistening, deadly powder.
I remember that blade, as it rode with the tablet…
Two fateful opposites of the same mirror.
Shedding the skin for a simple tool,
For complex margins of silence's error…
Soul of his laid down to serenity…
Where it will never fade to waver.
A bleeding soul lay to flesh…
Leaving dark stains upon the paper.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem