Sunday, April 14, 2019

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.  
Image result for exiled male muse paintings
The Exile Of Aestheticism -- Darwin Leon

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