If my mind is a garden
then you are the rusty blade of the lawnmower
dragged across the yard for the millionth time
whilst you tuck me into my deathbed
you suck my demons through the linen.
pensively stroking at the butchered stump,
the cavity in which once bore a heart
stumbling amidst the filth,
thriving amidst decay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem