wise fool (what is the point of art)

Maybe my hands are smoky,

fingers count one, two, burn-pull

or just your breath hanging in midair,

words crystallizing between us, floating

out a frosted window from your teeth.

waterfire. a gushing sound approaches

my brush, painting hair out of my eyes again

green forehead, green eyes.

they are balloons of light, coloured with melodies.

I must use my twitching, twisted phylanges to birth them to this plane

so I am not the only one who believes in them.

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