Putting out fires
is an impossible task
when all you can find
are poems of paper
wooden hopes
and faith wrapped with
a decomposing cloth
rather
it is better to just
cast those into the pyre
perhaps as fuel these will
suspend
the creeping night
for just a moment further
This will be a series of parts of incomplete poems that either don't hold up as a whole, are half baked, or are too lost in translation. Comments will be appreciated