An Ode to Muses to Melpomene

Pharaoh

The sands of time trickle off of the shape of an hourglass.

They are collected in baskets woven of Sphinx hair,

Filtered through a patchwork of screens,

And pillaged for gold hearts.

I steal the discarded grains

And blow them into glass.

The forbidden, permanent, ice sculpture,

Though you may not drip,

Steam rises from my touch,

And your foundation is hollow.

I fill your insides with fire and pop the bubbles at your surface.

You tell me you never knew you could be beautiful,

Cursing the gold woven into the desert's tapestry.

They may have fashioned you shiny armor,

Lacking protection from your ancestor's harsh storm.

Instead, I lay this barren landscape with roses

And kiss your heels each time you fall.

Now, I no longer fear the flushed heat of my cheeks

Because warmth does not melt your solid heart.

I sketch your waves in black ink blots

And dip my nails in the shape of each curl.

I write your soft-spoken tone in blue imprints

And hope my literature withstands the prose of history.

I paint my lips red

And stain your expression hot pink with each greeting.

My glass warrior wears me as a scarf,

As I remind him that he was never a trophy,

But a masterpiece that glistens brighter than gold.