The Artist and the Muse
Peering into keyholes
Lapsing through peeling skin
I hear the echoes of my shadow
Sightlessly opening once forgotten reflections
When I slowly rise like a seraphim
Making my way towards the Pheonix
I help her make love to a spaceless clock
I am the muse piecing together her life from worn-out cocoons
I live to disintegrate her quill
Spilling putrid colors
That bleed open the walls seams
Passing the rooms that past through rooms pasted into rooms
And even if we only waver in static
Creating nothing but pure sound
I will always be her mouth into the void
Pacing the days that pass into seasons of endless questions
it's belladonna ladyship with penny royal tea
it's a false widow
exchanging porcelain overseas
it's the brittle little cakes that break
as we take sugar from snowflakes
it's birdseed and beer gardens
the amber fellowship
it's coaxing father T.
to number the parts of his heart
while she whispers siamese
outside the park
it's prosthesis, a sarcophagus
a touching of cups
it's mother N. whooping it up
at the steps of
Reflections in the mirror
don't leave stains
like a cut on the face
leaves a scar.
Torn tissue never to return
as it was.
Pedaling my bicycle
through my errors.
Of judgement, choices.
Who is my friend.