The Lament of a Muse
One day he will come soaked in guilt,
trampling the walls I heartily built,
severing every bond I had held to the ground
in order to statuette me in an iron clad mound.
Affectionately calling me his muse,
abjecting the tears rolling down the face,
my sinister laugh of a definite ruse,
chiming its way out without any trace.
He marks the beauty, it's every layer,
naming the carves on the bodice,
sculpting my pains for people to stare,
I turn mute for the formidable spears,
capitulating to the staple whims,
compiling the thoughts and sending them into an abyss.
Walls cave in and darkness stiffens,
the yonder yelps of yearning staggers.
He will tell how I moved him,
I will remember how I never set a foot ahead,
channeling my thoughts on a thorny bed.
A soul full of desperation,
residing in a body which serves as inspiration.
I remain the hollow shell,
and he blows his breathe and gave voices to me,
then claim that I have music in me,
the music I never heard, the voices I never spoke.