Thank you, Vincent.

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


What are you doing alone,
Dirt on your face, smiling.
Is that paint on your clothes?
Your funny blinking unsettles me.

&

Thank you, Vincent.
Though I didn't buy it as the other had.
I'd rathered the blood inside.
To watch you sit and paint,
To have you watching the field,
Protecting a magic inside, so easily lost.

&

How could I sit with you?
Your madness so deafening,
Mouth shut, hand quick.
You understand it, don't you.
So spill out onto the floor,
I should buy it from you.

&

The trees, or even the weeds,
Growing through the rocks.
Oh, see how the sun settles,
Like a glimmer, pale.
If you could see the wind,
Might we have sat together,
Silently.

&

Stare at the winds with me,
To watch it play.
Us, always walking south,
Long, shoes tight.


Submitted: November 19, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Flambe. All rights reserved.

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