Paint

The sound of leaves falling 

Makes me smell paint 

Early in the morning I feel 

The rain before it comes 

Blowing against my outstretched 

Hands I hold the light. 

And I carry it within until night 

But it is the moon 

That lets me sleep and tears 

Away my dreams too soon 

They grow like flowers and die inside themselves 

Shattering their seeds into mirrors of glass 

I see myself looking in to.  

In my own painting 

Quietly awaiting to be painted over.  

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