Quietly, the wind comes,
transforming into a pointed dagger of a muse.
The murdered landscape of colors bleeding,
trying to ingest the muse.
A quarrel between violet homes
defeated and uprooted.
Unfurling stitches of dead mouths.
Colors deformed. Bright neons
& curled blues.
A white sky now turned red, opaque.
This space, an empty eye.
Nothing is forever.
What about your muse?
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Published by my valiant soul
A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times.
Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied.
My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others.
Curator of Olive Skins.
View all posts by my valiant soul
Such delicacy.
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Thank you, Amartya.
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Pleasure reading
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Subhanallah! This is quite profound. Stay blessed
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Thank you Muntazir!
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My pleasure
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This has a somber tone to it and a dark feel… It’s brutally raw, yet not quite emotive. It’s a perfect blend of both worlds. Nice work, Devika.
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Yes, these days I am trying to work on other perspectives, trying to liberate myself from something.
Thank you tre for your beautiful soulful words.
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You’re most welcome. And, I understand.
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The question at the end is like a knock in the back of my head. A beautiful read, as always.
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I often wonder will our muse be alive always?
Thank you for the read , Nam!
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Beautiful
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Thank you so much!
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My pleasure always
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Reblogged this on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.
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Thank you.
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Beautiful words, filled with lovely images and questions.
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Thankyou beautiful.
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it’s always my pleasure! x
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So beautiful.
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Thank you.
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You’re welcome. 🙂
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Ah, lovely!
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Thank you.
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Awesome
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This leaves me with a very profound question, what if our muse dies? You have handled it very intelligently,
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This was beautiful. The question leaves us wanting more.
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Thank you.
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