Nobody’s Muse

 

nobody's muse

 

But no-one ever wrote a thing, for you,

Let you carry them on a flight of music:

Ride the wings on your shoulders, your widened back

A perfect kite. Nobody cared to sing

For those closed lips, or play a doleful lute

For a bowl of your last, deep, and untouched, wine:

Nobody took a drop of cyan ink

To trace across your wrist’s calligraphy.

Nobody ever did prop up their easel,

Bid you sit – take in your silhouette,

Recast your features, trace your shaded thoughts

And resting shapes – or even let the spill

Of watercolours whiten out your eyes.

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6 thoughts on “Nobody’s Muse

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