Monday, October 21, 2019

the muse

subtle and demure she stands just over there
robed in both light and darkness.
her eyes a thousand penned letters
untold longing gazes, songs and prose fit to seduce.
delicate, yes.  a wren singing but quick to flush away.

she is quietly shamefaced in the clearest light.
in the midnight, oh, in the deep black of inky night she becomes afflatus.
through terror, through pain, through longing
she wordlessly draws the congealed emotion and emptiness and sound and bitter light
like a salve pulling putrid effluent from a boil
like exhalation submerged in chains she brushes her lips against mine
and multi syllabic detritus flows, clawing at the soul as it is rent forth.

and the pain of it sears the core with delicious agony
the draining of a wound to make room for more to flow
until it pours unbidden and snakes its cold, alert, searching trail to fingertips
to voice
to atmosphere.

she pulls away then, willing victim slumped, silently weeping,
she pulls to just out of sight and waits for the void to fill again.
I lay spent, trembling, empty of my soul.
racked with the pain of exposure and purge
and long for her to come to me again.

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