Poetry, love and lunacy

I am an anti-Muse in disguise.

To the benevolent eye, I walk greenish paths,

The grass ate the pasture and I chewed it all

The basil’s fragrance feeding my pores,

The decapitated stump treeing my path,

And the ruins of remembering tangled

In my hair, as the skin feels raw and itchy

To the touch of amnesiac fingertips.

You would think there is an olden Diane

Splitting me in lithe halves, unequally,

But you are blind, for I have swallowed

The frame naked goddess and chased the deer.

I have accumulated all bankrupt courage

There is, on this empty page to be filled,

Since such words conjured others to riot

Into the pit of me, as I penned down the noise.

Indeed, I am a Muse at fault, a maker of trouble.

 

Reviews

[ARP]

It's great. I keep reading it. Something new catches me everytime.