My muse,
the one who
lives
inside of me,
has gone
Dark.
She is mad.
She no longer
shares
her tales
of love
with me.
She speaks
in breathy
whispers
of heartache,
she dares me
to die,
to pen a poetic
last note
and leave
my words
behind.
She laughs
at my pain.
She does not
know
that she remains
my Muse,
that there
is beauty still,
in the sadness.
There is art
in my
brokenness.
The tearing away
at a man
by the
blackest Muse,
is still
better than
no muse
at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment