kinda old:
Rust, cornered by bone,
my rose breathes from the heart
A landscape of a plain and restless blue
I touch felt to canvas
And these wings fly only backwards,
these wheels are too square
Where is my inspiration?
The slow hand, feathered in the mess of an ugly duck
Disguised as a wolf, shrouded in sheepskin
My soul is an abortion
My fingers are weak
this dude writes Gems
He does, he does.
many graciasses