The Art of Disappearing

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The Art of Disappearing

It is a quiet art, to leave,
To let the heavy spirit grieve.
To trade the bone and flesh and vein,
For something like the mist and rain.

I feel my edges start to blur,
I am not me, I am not her.
I am a colour, deep and dark,
A shadow without light or spark.

A swirl of violet, soft and slow,
The only freedom that I know.
To simply let the wind decide,
Where all my scattered pieces hide.