The Muse
She sat on my bed, red mouth scattering.
Drinking my smoke and comfort.
I was dancing diet pill, with ear buds.
Pestering on my shoulder,
was her dead lovely.
I, am smell of sometimes,
Her, a voice of flavor on the tip.
A whisper of fever,
In her caves,of poor light.
Desire is focused in holes in ceiling tiles,
Ear into eyes, unable to divert.
Her wisdom , a days mock frolic,
Shutting down my nervous faculties.
Feeling small in her Uni-verse,
Mime tracing her outline,
Stubbornly secret,in her intent,
The words flint for wanting.
Adaptation the influence,
No one wants to see,
I loving a soul, be for ********.
In the moment stunned by her pristine.
Her works she read,
I realized consumed,
The famine mentor, critiquing me rightly,
Charring to a birth within.
And to give shine to an apple,
In her decreeing eye,
I became a heroin's lover,
Microsoft Zen for months.
Regretting I wrote weak-soft,
Now to coffee and wanting it bitter black,
Muse subservient to her a speaking fantasy,
As her red mouth scattered.
(for Silva)
Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2020
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