Spills Dream

Out of the palm of my hands,
from the creases of my skin
my story unfolds...

it is not unique

but speaks

a strange language.

In the mind, it takes
but minutes for death
to overcome the ripened flower...

the sweetness of fruit
sleeping in the sun,

the odor of life

In my bed, the sun sets...
my shoulders- earth,
my mouth- the song of wind

in the breast of trees,

my body a vessel of Spring

spills dream.

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