Picasso’s

when my soul is dry

its likened to float

to where it remembers you

for some days it forgets

those darkened dreamer eyes

those softly loud saucers

painting Picasso’s with a blindfold

its in the tiny little things

that hold you

like the bird today

that i’m certain was wearing a top hat

tap dancing to my ears

demanding i look up

perched there

in his morning solo

but it wasn’t he, no

it was the horizon in this tilt

i’m certain meant for me

and my soul again wet

for there in silent show

were those eyes winking back at me

orphaned dreams wandering

in every hue you painted

waiting to be plucked

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