Dark muse

There lies the tip,
dark and feathered--
morose and gangrened,
just below your Hell-carved tongue.

Its sinews are draped
with blackened flames
that burn and curl around
your prickled nerves.

Its charred roots coil
around your blistered heart,
tightening your breath
into steam--into speech

for this is the sharp quill of night
and ink the blood of dreams in flight.

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

I can never go wrong opening one of your poems... you always strike so deep into the heart and soul... And here is the whisper we have all heard in the night.. the flush of inspiration that seems maddening... a music so darkly played.. so unforgettable...

[RavenDelcor]

This free verse sonnet reaches into the dark, the ink, the mind, and goes at once beyond and directly into the process of attending to muse and craft. Imagery moves the reader line to line into a pen forced to move a writer's hand who feels that a vein has been opened in order to allow the poem release.

[eglantine]

merci :)

[Patrick Henry]

This is my favorite of yours thus far, eglantine!! I have read this about 30+ times already, and as to the reason why.... I don't know, but I DO know that I enjoy you. That last line got me!! For some reason, it reminded me of one of my OWN lines. : ) "My soul is the blood that bleeds the leech." Great poem! Beautiful eglantine. xoxo -Mark

[eglantine]

thank you very much for reading Mark

[Ahmad Cox]

Wow. Amazing and brilliant imagery. I know that even a lot of my more beautiful poetry came from times of struggle or how I am feeling but they are also when I am dwelling happy and connected are are often meant as praise or in order to teach or heal.

[eglantine]

thank you very much

[Melobldnfr]

This glistens with a chilling darkness of anticipation and truth. Well done.

[eglantine]

thank you :)

[lee von cleef]

Not to read fast,Sip this port,prune the thoughts,spread your wings on barren limbs drying together in their mourning pride,Skin heads tilt,still carrion sweepers decorate the beauty of decay,twisted bent white oak carcass, his arms fingering her sky. Hairy feathered knuckles mourning the sun rise red.Bring on the days dead.

[eglantine]

thank you! you have very singular, descriptive comments :)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

mmmm yes, poets thrive on pain....i have heard that all my life...and it is true...the darkest muse seems the most prolific...

conjuring pain from the past or the present moves the pen stealthily through the night...

the 2am blues sound from the keys like a sad song we can't get rid of in our minds until we get it down on paper...and even then...well.

this is such good stuff,

jacob

[eglantine]

Thank you as always Jacob

[Rusty]

Intense well written write.

[eglantine]

danke

[Fréyjä Helv..]

Dark fantasy illusions begin to conjure now. This poem is wonderful...

[eglantine]

thanks :)

[Christopher Steven Evan..]

Great poem. I liked this a lot.
"Its charred roots coil around your blistered heart"
"for this is the sharp quill of night and ink the blood of dreams in flight"
Excellent lines.
: )

[eglantine]

merci Christopher :)