Mistresses of the moon, decadent like stars,
temptresses made of the galaxies.
O, my sapphic heart cries for you,
for your hearts to match mine.
Made of the star dust,
and of the atmospheric blue silks,
my soul forever belongs to their endless nights.

Blurry details,
milky scratches and old punctures,
charming wrinkles and spots of pure sun,
a human Monet of perceived flaws,
delicately tie together and blur to create new imagery,
a lush scenery of memory and choice,
a coveted masterpiece.

Oscar Wilde, where do you get your inspiration?
Tell me, do your muses dance on the stars,
can they be heard by the sea?
Poetic and tragically romantic,
words strung together on the dewey webs of little black widows,
poisoning me with a cracked rosy vision .
What visions dance to create such imagery?
What do you see, in your time, to create vivid color?
O, Oscar Wilde,
the question haunts me.
Where do you get your inspiration?

I collect words like fine antiques,
Admiring the way this ancient lexicon rolls off my tongue,
The same way I’d admire how crystal candlesticks glow in the sun.
I create sentences like painters create art,
each syllable delicately placed,
Much like each individual paint stroke in Monet’s Japanese gardens,
Admired but never truly understood.
I cherish books like passions held close to my heart,
Comparing the glide of page against page as they turn in excitement
To the soft-lighted kisses shared in quiet moments,
Loved and filling my heart with contentment.

Youth is like being immortal,
to have the galaxies and beyond at your fingertips,
the doors of time and regret have yet to be opened by unknowing hands.

The nights where the immortal are reminded of their mortality,
and how the moon will wane, and the stars will grow old,
that to be young does not mean life is a promise.

What a cruel contract we live.