My charred remains
were to finance
charcoal murals.
I tried to unbecome,
but was lonely winds,
angry razors storming
surprised monks.
And then I was daffodils,
waiting cogent poets,
that my sea finds home,
in gentler hearts.
For all the fury of
one overflowing heart,
my hands are still hers:
I have touched nothing.
Image Source: Nicola Samorì
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