It is a rainy season,
Droplets slur the words written in blue ink,
Meant to be spoken and not red.
Paper softens to a paste,
When left outside.
The ink bleeds into the ground,
Coloring the roots of flowers, a turquoise hue.
The fair petals are no longer pure,
Painted with the shades of the solemn sky.
God is an artist that does not take well to vandalism,
So, I spray them white,
To match the crisp pages never used.
These flowers do not smell of perfume,
Except now, their aroma is intoxicating.
I harvest these petals to create my signature scent
And seduce you into drinking the tea of my leaves.
Now, you may wear me in absence,
As I poison myself,
So that I may join you.
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Muses to Kleio
PoetryThis poetry collection explores love, lust, betrayal, and a dash of rage. Bonus points if you're a Greek mythology fan! Written from a female perspective, it goes through the motions of complicated relationships, cheating, longing, and moments of pa...
