a muse resurrected of blood and ashes

A thousand words in her voice haunting the damp celtic quarters, her peaceful sighs punctuating my sleeps, and the perennial mist that infests the bay windows, she’d be as imaginary as evolution itself.
At the least, to the world she’s still surreal in the mute portraits adorning their walls.

There she stands, or lies rather, as a silent sentinel of the floodgates,
guarding the guarded, snatched away from me everyday just because some other man ‘feels’ he could relate to her mute predicament.

My nonexistent muse,
 my Ariadne of the labyrinthine subconscious that I nurse.

Gracing me albeit , of her presence a few auspices  more than the vernal equinox.

she of the pristine blithe flesh and raw gaping wounds
she of long calloused fingers entwined in my hair.
and a proven necessity, if you ask me
to sit before an easel by the break of dawn.

My sparkling aquamarine in the deep recesses of dreams,
my ecstatic sighs spread on the canvas.
one night too many obscured in psychedelia,
my precious,
of the trembling hands, and bruised lips.

a stolen figment of my broken world,
of corpses in the armchairs,
and military tanks on streets.

a distinct rumble of agitation,
all stoic silences drawn over windows,
and yet dreams woven on threads of tears everynight.

She resurrects herself within me now and then,
only to adorn the naked walls of history.

and bleed,
in
silence.