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Jan 2014
I've always ever wanted a muse
with pickled eyes the color of
the dank, polluted snow that haunts the crevices of my city,
I've only ever yearned to touch
something bent, but not broken --
like the ligament of your bone.
With what breath do I hold from you,
but fog, smog , sour pears, and a hint of lague
You are the grim beauty to walk the Victorian era
Dashing, lashing --
Oscar Wilde couldn't even spout a witty retort.
Pink lips that incise like the curve of a scalpel
sent Hannibal on his way to salvation
and a voice like the cursive handwriting I could never perfect
Morose, macabre -- these are the terms to coincide with obsession.
In any way,
you have always ever been my muse.
Deal with it.
Emerald Proctor
Written by
Emerald Proctor
   Weeping willow, Maham S and Reece
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