The Painter

infinite stretch
I reach
 rub green through   Nature
trees on my
    fingertips
    color of our lungs
on rainy afternoons
    a lush world
blooms slow
like a    Lotus
     half-open
I wait
     planet of mud
 hands     outstretched
      to the blue
it pours
               leaves
are greener
     lost nights
I write
     places with
pumpkin purple
     horizons
and
  blood orange
      suns
      smeared ink
I erase
  blood blue
        stains
  on      page
        when the pen
     breaks
   I bleed     out

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Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.