Shutting Down


My dissected history won’t speak for you.
Don’t write on me or on the graffiti that sing of Marley.
Your lyrics are your own, that build bricks of closures.

Words are polygamous
Like rain is to swirls on a pond

But dear,
My canvas carries yellow fields
Like Van Gogh did
To the hill top
Where birds flew in fright.

 

 

 

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