The slow peel of the muse
exposing inner emptiness
is as pure a death
as Juliet's 'distilled liquor'.
Both equal in beauty.
A slam into a power pole
achieves an equal end,
but with more mess.
The muse is the dance
of the painful slow reveal
rather than instant, black oblivion.
Strolling into the white light
with a pen as weapon.
Written in response to aprompt from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective
8 years ago
9 comments:
Are a small slow read ... I like it up to the last couplet which I don't really understand.
Took a couple of reads, but I got it!
Love the interpretation. I think many writers would agree.
I like this, especially if the images forming in my mind are the ones you intended. No, I like it even if they're not.
And now, stage left, dropping one strap from a shy shoulder along the way. (For some, it's a long, slow dance.)
I know you not, dear lady, but methinks that 'shy' could be pushing it!!
Ah, your muse in the suicide seat. Nice angle, Julie.
It was the third stanza that made this piece for me.
sharp, neat, a very satisfying read.
Now, this... The imagery and it all... A joy to read.
ah, very good. kind of lost the meaning at the end, but interpretation is half the fun
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