My Demons
My Demons demons stories
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zjw
zjw Poetry is the language of the stars
Autoplay OFF   •   7 months ago
A poem the true meaning of art.

My Demons

Creases run through his palms

Creases run through his palms as old as the cracks of the earth.

Today the hands make poetry for the eyes,

Today the hands make poetry for the eyes, as they do everyday,

Today the hands make poetry for the eyes, as they do everyday, bringing color to the fields of white,

Today the hands make poetry for the eyes, as they do everyday, bringing color to the fields of white, the snow of the arctic.

"Why do you you paint?" I ask.

"Why do you you paint?" I ask. his frozen eyes hang limp,

"Why do you you paint?" I ask. his frozen eyes hang limp, midnight glasses fall to his nose.

"My demons," he says.

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