Down

Visual infinity.

Rain and dust
on my painted face.
Colors bleed, my chin is cold.

I am thinking of the feathers
I
discarded
far beyond.

How I lay them
so carefully on the grass
touching them, holding them
for a moment,
watching them fly away.

I wanted to walk,
my bare feet touching the stones and the cool dirt
and the glass.
My face is here, sheen with gritty moisture.

Bright colors bleed.
To dust I return.

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