Muse
Those unopened letters everywhere,
Torn apart and burned.
Every word was worth a hundred or so,
Wounds don't scare the skin, is what I learned.
Broken strings and shady sounds,
I had never felt so secured.
The rust is always recognized,
Indeed rest assured.
Gin and tonic to my mortality,
Has been nothing but my muse,
Hate and heal are beaten alive,
It has to be a truce.
The bayou had mirrors to scream,
Every single one was real.
I was bleeding in the lone alone,
Art was with me to let me heal.
Copyright © Resham Tulsiani | Year Posted 2020
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