Island of your words unsaid

Björn Rudbergs writings

On oily doldrum waters, in the speechless sea
a lonely island lies. It’s soil is filled with crosses
and on its craggy shores rotting carcasses
of moored intentions are scattered, spread
There stories never told are feeding vultures
and what’s common sense is dead.

You reach it through the a belt of hurricanes,
through roaring brine and on breaking waves
of good intentions. You reach it after hope
have died and when sleepless sails are torn.
You reach it with a mouth of salt, ambitions
dwindling in relentless sun, your swollen tongue
a useless lump of flesh; when breath is shallow
after days at sea you see its hopeful shore
in indigo, shadow and mirage. Relieved
at first you hope to quench your thirst for truth,
but the island is a corpse, its bones is formed
from bitterness and tears, its marrow mockery,

On its sandy beaches, you can rest…

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