Muse

I've watched fawns spill flowers between the collar bones of babes,
Planting their hooves beneath sugared spines.
Too sweet for fawn lips
But never too sweet
For grass stains and
Blood spots, and
The caressing company of warm ribs.

Crashing when the fawns fell,
I'd run like the days.
Curling beneath sleepy leaves and
Broken metronomes,
Tripping for my lost muse.
And as the ink dried from my fingers,
I shaded my self in salted slumber.

I've never seen mornings so silent.
Gray as hell gone cold.
Death and moors of stray marks,
Winding away like cords.

Surely the ghosts would return.
Bending up on their smoldering feet,
Laughing like ghouls
In the presence of spring.

Reviews

[raining]

Surreal of course, and speaks well in its own language and i like it having said that and recognizing that there is two r's in surreal, i um think (have you read Richard Brautigan) that this kind of writing inspires others who need it like a drink of water, parched, by same same same and by poetry that isnt growing out of itself, but:

...here i elected to erase the last two paragraphs of this review, seeing-s how i appeared to be kind of pompous, .......

[J. A. Svercek]

Possibly the most unique thing about this piece is the fact that you've discreetly weaved the actual muse into the piece and knotted us into it before you even told us what it was all about. Amazing imagery, flow, thanks for writing,

J.

[AmericanStandard]

I was intrigued by this one... for some reason I find it quiet beautiful. Well done indeed