WASHING ME

Vines of music crawl over the

listening parts of me. The aroma of it

lifts from lines like everyday wash hung

from my soul; dripping the old part onto

the soil of my comfort, drying me into

a creation I thirst for.

The smoke of my thoughts curled tight,

feeding on the moisture of my

garden and appetite within. The sound of jazz

opened suitcases of me, tossing the neatness

as if confetti; its landing lay jagged and random.

A river I feel; strong currents hold rights over me.

The songs break like waves. I sing the opening of

day. Night songs wash me anew.

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