She Paints

She speaks in colors now.
She utters no disclaimers, herky jerking
through the forest, palette loaded up and primed,
working out the jungle jive, scaly sunburnt chin
of strangled prose and tattooed skin.
      
She paints the trees by paleful moonlight,
leaves of mauve, tendrils trailing down like braids,
twisted up like no one's business,
wearing gnomy, gnarly shades of blue,
tangled up and tough as glue.
      
She floats beyond my stretchy fingers,
graspy green, flying on a hint of breeze,
somersaulting through the forest,
scratchy arms and bark-stained knees of brown,
jangled up and backing down.

She scatters colors mixed with raindrops,
purple spindles, flailing through a prism's glass,
expurgating all her visions,
tattered, splattered toes of grassy white,
spangled up devoid of light.

She coils around the trees at midnight,
wracked and wraithed, remnants dripping to the ground,
wrenching out the cold earth tones,
bony shoulders round and gray,
mangled up and tossed away.

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She exists in the trees

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