Paint

I knew three painters

one changed her style and went from dream catchers

to white cottages

beaten by silt

on isolated

cliffs edge

the second

copied everything she saw

without an original idea

ended up

breaking her horse hair brushes on

the flint of her rage against the world

and the third

she painted me

with her mouth

and I

sung

like a bird

released from cage

in indigo, violet

vermillion and scarlet

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