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.]

~for old poets every where

I'm a short burst deep sleeper,
the woman is a restless wild eyed story telling schemer~dreamer, who drives at night
in fourth gear,
shaking the bed,
with dreams gone wild,
crazed & crazy intermixed stories unhinged but always
real life related

most by morn forgotten,
'cept for the truly bizarre,
where scraps of unbridled unbelievable
remain for head shaking disbelieving

i sleep in clumps,
four hour sessions and thus oft
bear witness to her
charcoal activated dream states,
where physical reality intersperses,
i n t e r m i n g l e s
with her dream life,

when she wrestles with an
unreal
dreamed restlessness;
my fingers find an exposed
body part, arm, shoulder, tummy,
and steady massage a message
from my fingertips to her
brain,

mantra: it's ok, it's alright,
and return her to the safety
of a deeper sleeper,
so the brain can do its work,
washing away the unrefined,
needy for distilling,
overnight cleansing,
of unwanted memories
which generally works

in the thorny morny morning
she gets a questionnaire
and 9/10,
has no recollection collection,
my magic prophylactic
fingertips, each tipped with
a inked smiley face,
look up at me,
know-it-alls,
smirking contentedly,
"our work is done here!"

Nay, May 25
2025
writ by starlight