Incense and innocence
Christmas smelled like tangerine, fire placed and slowly peeled, while waiting in a whiff of resin roast and firewood; and from the woods a hint of moss and mulch. The […]
Category Archives: sonnet
Sleeping with death
When darkness tiptoed through our streets, we shut the windows, blocked the doors before they knocked. “This night is death”, you cried, “it stabs my gut”. We listened to the […]
Black and blacker
When darkness tiptoed through our streets, we shut the windows, blocked the doors before they knocked. “This night is death”, you cried, “it stabs my gut”. We listened to the […]
Loneliness is not a void
Your loneliness is not a weightless void it’s not the darkness of a hollowed heart. Your loneliness is lead and plans destroyed, it’s blood and bones, the undertaker’s cart. Your […]
Fear is life itself
The taste of fear is schizoid pure and red, a piece of meat, it’s poppies lost and flown from cries in mud and trenches darkly bled. We harvested the fear […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 