ME: If I was someone else...

If my heart was made of stone

I wouldn’t hurt as much

            only the soul would bleed a bit…

If my eyes were made of glass

I wouldn’t see the pain

            I’d only hear my lament…

If my skin was made of steel

I wouldn’t bruise from every blow

            only from the ones within…

If I was someone else… may be

I wouldn’t be so frail

and may be even wouldn’t care at all…

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Death of Dusk by Mark R Slaughter

The sun resigns, 

bleeds out the vestiges –

remnants of the day.

Exsanguination edges into twilight: 

red-brown hangs; 

upwards darkens: 

blue-brown, 

blue-black, 

death-black, 

disquiet – furtive, 

like ghoul-ridden fog.

A sombre moon assumes its role, 

gushing silver-white lymph upon the muted scape – 

a prequel of supernatural undertones

to chill the scene, 

ice the spine, 

kill the brain – 

we have unnerved the very firmament.

But now a shadow closing down the globe: 

dinosaurian cloud shrouds the moon glaze, 

claims the late hour –

declared in a dying crow caw.

I, the hidden owl 

– nemesis of claustrophobic minds –

awake! for mammal flesh –

fresh, jerking out its warmth in dance of death.

Rock-still I perch in sculptured oneness

with my crooked night-tree, 

emanating nocturnal allure.

Together we scowl

together we play the dark 

upon the land and sky

and mind 

while you lie as dead in your box.

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ME: За да те помня и дори когато забравям//Remembering the forgotten ones

Мъка, теглило, и мъничко щастие,

роден да умреш и потънеш в забрава,

защо тия усилия да останеш,

ако даже и спомена в чуждите мисли изгаря?

Защо ти е плът,

ако тя се погуби?

И защо са делата,

ако тях не ги помнят?

Как тъжно е всяко едно раждане –

за смърт обещание

и за още забрава!

 -------------------------------------

Misery, suffering, and tiny bit happiness,
born just to die and to slip in oblivion,
why does one bother to sit out through that play,
when not even a memory lingers in others?

What is the use of the flesh
if it all fades away?
And why are the deeds
if they’re not remembered?

Is there anything sadder than birth –
just a promise for drown
in the Lethean waters!

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