She was his muse.
She didn't have a sculpted body;
And yet,
he dreamed about her.
She was a masterpiece, in all her glorious imperfection.
Her hair was as black as the words he put on paper.
And her soul was as stained, as could be.
She was a poem incarnated.
And he was just a poet.
But there was no describing her.
And there also was no way to escape her,
'cause whenever he looked at her, she reminded him of spilled ink.
Spilled from the Greek Gods themselves;
Her beauty was greater than Aphrodite's;
Her soul was darker than Hades'.
And the fire in her eyes could make Helios jealous.
She was born from a mistake.
And yet,
everyone wanted to pursue her wild splattered heart;
but she rejected everyone.
And all he could do was write about her until his hands were full of blisters and his writing a chaotic mess.
Because only then, when he lost all the senses of his body and the logical thinking of his mind;
He would have a chance to do her justice.
YOU ARE READING
| Colors of Humanity |
PoetryMy attempt at describing people, relationships and stories through color related poems. But since blue, red or yellow are so vague, I will get more specific... [Some might be triggering or unsettling] Highest rank: #340 in poetry (6th July, 2016) #3...
