Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix


Every once in a while, your hands are not yours anymore.

They belong to the infinites of the sky that seem so close but are so far.

The colours; that speak of crimes; seem to pleasantly spread across your hands.

And voluntary actions change into involuntary sensations.

The colours on your hands caress the colours of the vibrant sun.

The soft touches of its rays burn into your timid hands and you feel alive.

It is a mystery worth a million years of experiencing burns on every inch of your colourful and soft skin, isn’t it?

How can damage bring happiness?

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