Sheikha A. writes

I write without a muse

that once leered at me

head to toe; perverse

in intention to own me,

consume me into rage

for adorning a name

not its own on pieces

of thoughts it’d gift me

in ornate boxes 

of torn inspirations.

I shut it in its box,

a night my freedom

seeking self, lured

my lover, my affair

to take over my pen

and rivet me alive

of words shrieking

brilliance. Instead

I spend my nights

opening each box

in hope for peace

from salvation

I expected to be

my saviour.  

The Exile Of Aestheticism -- Darwin Leon