A vulcano

Another poem I wrote. It even occassionaly writes this time. Though I've written it in a state of complete exhaustion, so it doesn't really make sense.

A vulcano, a wound of earth

bleeding burning rocks and lava.

What makes this world so badly hurt,

jestli to není lidská hlava.

(if not clothes designed by "Prada")

the skin is landscape of a desert

watter of tears don't belong here.

Yet it is there at the present

it's the manly tears of fears.

The world behind the tears is blurry

and that provides tranquility

-a special sort of distant feel

that the end is drawing near.

And so I'm thinking, sitting here

I could really use a beer

'cause otherwise the constant fear

might damage to mind and body deal.