I hung onto
the fragmented root
from her deathbed, the lips,
deep into truncated roses;
It was the ghost
that fluttered in my heart
wanting to die. Muse, muse,
my ailments, my garden bloodletter
I lived to see it gone
and another depression
in the rose bush was born,
I consorted first
the row of angels
like cards, seeking the death
of my cynicism (it’s like cyanide), to the trill in my chest
like a bathing bird;
her vale to show her face
I pulled back the insanity
from my bones; a bovine crown
of thorns should rest on my head,
I am bygone in the simplicity
of madness, my emotions settled on love’s procacity
on its technicolor nightmare
like a stilled photograph; it’s in my mind, each velvet dream
and garden of paper-trees
that I sigh across the false prayer, this hiccup in a moment
evaporating upon fear
orgasmic in the ammonia-ic leaf
she smiles from.
© 2021 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.
Written for the 7/20/2021 dVerse prompt: Who’s your muse?
As I’m pressed for time at the moment, I’ll come back later with an explanation of my muses.
Back. This poem is derived from what stirs my muse and inspires it: Love. I often have love on the mind when I write poetry, believe it or not. So maybe I’m a sap but it pushes me a lot, whether it’s familial, platonic, or romantic love. It’s a big inspiration for me as I generally have a figure of one of those in mind when writing. I guess you can say I was more drawn by Erato than Melpomene for this prompt.
But make no mistake where love lies, there is hate as well. 😀 It’s the copout explanation, though. I am really inspired by love, but I just twist it around viscerally.
My next poem I plan to target Melpomene.