16 August 2018
You paint sounds,
hang them on a tree
Among an army of trees
I start to obsess
try to take them down-
But, Framed
for tainting the silver with my
contrasting color
Skin- dedicated to the familiar,
milky chalk blue river I fell in before
A color, that no lips crave-
This pastel, lacking admiration at the least
I belittle the bark,
Until blood swells at my hands
At least when the mirror fogs up,
I can construct a forest that I won't get lost in.
Sincerely, THE AUTHOR
