poetry critical

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The escape artist goes outdoors

In all the rainbow shades he brought to me --
Thunder. Magic. A closed door.
Reassembling myself into broken
scribbling about the storm,
you ask me how I produce my Art.
Tracing over death, I grasp
colours that never escaped; you say
it's dispair and indeed, it is.

1 Apr 19

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(19 more poems by this author)

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