The Ruby Muse
I've another muse come to me,
eyes as dark as obsidian-onyx,
fair skin as silver as the dust of the moon's flesh,
hair of a raven's dark, shadowed complexity.
There are irridescent speckles of golden sun dust in her eyes,
lighting about her face like fireflies.
Wings of black flames rise behind her,
luminescent blazes of crimson fire burn beneath her.
She is a dark muse,
encouraging nightmares,
somehow beautiful and lovely
in her deathly visage.
Here, she draws shadows around us,
tucking us uncomfortably
in the errie and irritable silence
of Night.
Were there ever as ruby lips as hers?
Seeming of blood, as though she drinks of us?
This muse is a dark muse.
She feeds on our nightmares,
and we feed on her terrible inspirations,
insanity,
and tragedy and loss,
feeding on terror,
and death.
3.28.08
YOU ARE READING
RIP
PoetryTwisted. Fearful. Beating. Harmony: Dark imagery of an ex-psychopath written in poetry. Rest in Peace, my little straight jacket. Enjoy the reading, my friends!