The graveyard roses
Your tone’s a knife — carving ink-blot syllables, rust-and-oil-despicable, you’re hurling gazes laced with deep contempt, with thistle words and soot I’m suffocated, I am a stranded fish. We pick […]
Tag Archives: blackness
scabs of ink stained fingers
my ink stained fingers carry the black memories of the morning news but I cannot bear to soil sparkling garden dew therefore nature’s innocence still remains untouched my itching scabs […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 