I called out to you
my voice echoed deep,
into the caves of art and soul
my voice painted itself on the walls
the clay a dark maroon; like the blood coursing through me
it slashed against the wall, telling a story
a story of a time when I didn’t need to be heard
my voice was solitary and loud
the clay maroon and wet; like the saltiness that seeps down my eyes
paints a face of a time that has passed.
the paint moves anonymously like it needs no mind
thats what it was. thats what my voice was.
it splashed through infinity and back running through streams,
meandering across several crossroads. but it reached the cave, the entrance
and it burst against the wall; it expressed itself in maroon, like the song of my veins
incomplete, infertile and free.

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