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Pellucid petals of lust,
I, lean over to smell the paper,
Where I lament my dead hopes
burning ferociously.
My pen is pervicacious
inclined to savour the smoke ignited.
The words are my soul,
Insatiable I am dipped in its white corona.
Cathartic particles of serenity forms
as I write my love,
The paper, the pen, the paper-cuts
soaks me in its sullen charm.
And I declare my writing β€” my muse.

Β©My Valiant Soul



  1. You may find this odd, but I find this piece uplifting at this time.
    Thank for providing such a first read for my day.
    Hope you’re well. Gotta go. : )

    Liked by 1 person

  2. As we allow the surge to flow, the words do come as if directly pieces of soul, and the process does indeed feel like a great love from which all, there is, arises …even the paper cuts become beautiful!
    Loved getting immersed in your work.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Your awesome poems creates surreal pictures in the mind. I can imagine you as fairy with a wand like pen , and a Corona on your head…Obviously you are smiling and happy. β˜ΊοΈπŸ‘πŸ‘

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Great use if alliteration and I like your take on the muse – writing itself. That’s a huge declaration, for sure, and you’ve penned your declaration very well.

    Liked by 1 person

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