My red walls have blossomed for you,
Matisse
My red blood cells urged themselves in little, silent implosions,
Matisse
Red is the harmony in the spring fury
when trees get drunk with their own seva
poking our eyes with their enthusiastic flowers
Red is an autumnal symphony whispered by foxy leaves
when departure falls
What is left of our harmony, Matisse?
A red vision of a life painting
blurring itself slowly...
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