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His Paint Mixes with Your Tears

It comes like this
like the rain.
You are a cloud
bursting through
your mind,
the earth welcomes
you sometimes
and breaks its own monotony
of dust and dirt,
life abides.

A yellow bus rolls by, filled
with daffodils and sunflowers.
There's another
story you must tell. Another poem
begs to be written and your
mouth is watering for words and you notice
rain falling on the street.
Deeply immersed in the
chaos of your heart, you live.

Van Gogh paints stars in the sky.
Petals fall.

Editing stage: 

Comments

"Catch a falling" daffodil.
Or a falling poem that rides through the sky on revolving light and shade
cradling the sun and towing the thoughts of the poet, the insane moment
is recorded and words groped for - a poem is born, splashed on the page
with vigour, like the brush of the man with one ear.

I believe you have blossoms falling in your town, Anna, I can see them,
there were blossoms, a whole field of them in Charlotte, where the plane
landed after leaving you, I nearly went out of the airport to see them, but
decided I had better stay where I was, perhaps I couldn't have gone out
anyway, but I saw them and flew like a bird over them.

I read your elation, with Van Gogh's.
As aye Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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