To Muse

Fiction, Rakehell, Romance

My poem is you on that hill in France, and their breaths mingling with those of ancient Cathars that drift on the breeze like so many wizards on magic carpets, spreading unknown secrets to unknown passers-by searching for mountains.
My poem is Peruvian crags, broken sheepfolds, dusty books whose pages turn at ghostly hands, responding to the stare of unseen eyes. Their dead dedications living eternally.
Lips on coffee cups forgetting sticky soft reflections on the enamel, rose dreams of romance in a dark and waking world. Eyes that explore faces to avoid eyes and eyes to avoid faces and eyes with souls like velvet cushions.
My poem is two people lazing on a jungle bough with sunglasses and vests. An isolated day on a beach, in a dream city, where lives are made and broken and seen and ignored.
My poem is an English teacher. Sam Feathers crying lascivious tears at Arcadian shepherds, the regency chair at the front of the class talking of its myriad masters, novel man dancing round disruptions and a doctor talking tearaways with the vegan lioness whilst the sun kisses their garden table and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit.
My poem is untold stories is walls of words and loving sentiments is decisions made in stone to be despaired, is comfortable shoes beneath the viewing plane. The stars of night and the shades of day, the couple who cannot help but hold hands. The moment of union forgotten.
My poem is trees and trees and trees You. Sit. And. See. Me. Out. Of. The. Corner. Of. Your. Eye. My poem is the silence that speaks. That licks the wild honey pie. Chalk figures masking silhouettes, bass beats of bloody red purple hearts sucking and pumping. Caves of memorial emotion and fleeting feelings flying succour across seas to rougher shores. Fleshy warmth. Head that opens and rays out. Born from a tree imprisoned in ice, travelled through time and exuding life. My poem is a will to you of a nightime moment of pondering songs
It is
I’m gonna sleep now.

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