Sometimes I extricate
Myself from the blankets,
The shards, the vines
And I exhaust myself
Ambling through the marshes
With a weary heart
And two, fickle feet
Of utter superfluity.
At night I hear
The screeching of the bats,
The trampling of the felines
A melee on the rooftops,
The bawling of the canines,
And I see photographs
Of the void,
The still abysses
Such abysmal horror
I just see all of this;
A standing invitation.
My room turns
Cold, embittered
A stench of death
And terror
Inferior to the clocks,
I kneel in front of their
Soliloquized pirouettes.
The death just sits there
Waiting patiently
Subtly seeping through
Fissures, crevasses
Slithering like black waters,
A dislimned evanescence.
Death just sits
There waiting,
Preying, anticipating
Any signs of
Predilection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem