in this fallen hour of sonnets;
I rip open foxglove memories,
and riddle an antidote-
fastidiously.
though my hours
are furrowed
with no tomorrows,
I braid my last verse
with feathers and metaphors;
a silent retreat.
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Ink Stains
PoetryA collection of musings from my heart that doesn't stick to a certain genre but mostly writes on heartbreak, depression, sadness, loneliness... of course masked under heavy abstract and metaphorical imageries. It might not be your simple poem to...
