Only the *******
of the vilest of muses.
Made of clay,
sculpted by pain and grief.
Hope paints faint strokes
of colour here and there.
Made of mud,
moulded by fear and memories.
Love draws childish details
no one else could see.
Only the *******
of a crooked muse.
Made of dry sand,
we are destined to be destroyed
by our own very essence.
Only the *******
of a sadistic muse.
Like the breeze that begins
in a butterfly’s wings,
turns into zephyrs.
The absent words of yesterday
turn into clay.
Only the *******
of a cruel muse,
and the foolishest of poets.
With souls craving water,
love drowns us in an oasis—
yet pain forgot to sculpt a throat.
With hearts craving answers,
hope drowns us in a crowd—
yet fear forgot to mould ears.
Only the *******
of the evilest muse,
and a poet too much in love.
[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]
What is the poet without his muse?
Words with no meaning, echoing aimlessly in a cave that vomits back the same nonsense it hears.
Oh, but what is the poet with his muse by his side?
Nothing but a slave—one who adores his chains, who crawls in delight and turns each lash into beauty.
