A red tear from his shadowed eyes
Falls to black, collides with brush
To spiral into quarter notes
That swim their way
Past rainbow rivers
Toward the singing fish
And go within its gills
To find adobe villages
Then untamed woods
By natural gardens
With their vivid vibes,
Prismatic peace
That fade into
Chromatic hills
From Prades, 1917
Where paths converge
Like music rising, dipping
On the scale of yellow ground
But soon evaporate
Sweet drops of noise to
Ribbons in Joan's blood.
Damn, that was hard to write.
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