To My Muse

I dear to set brush fires in people’s minds!
Revolution is action upon revelation!

As my little birdie sat in a cage
I broke its door only to watch it fly away.

I am nothing but a free spirit,
my person is a ghostly persona,
an illusion for a solution.

Awe to be poetic or not to be poetic?
Now that is the question is it not?

I think I’m richer than most with deep thoughts,
and deep pockets for each one.
I’ve got one tear
for each ink smear.

As I bleed black lace
from every one of my main arteries
leading to my heart.

It’s a Gothic wound
stitched together
with my needle of thoughts.

As I sit here writing,
My quill laughs at me,
as I scratch and scrape its ink
upon my soul.

I a lover to my muse,
a bearer of a darker view.

This is just one of those nights,
clouded by thoughts and ink smears
of Gothic knights.

Like always
I hold my sword of inked thoughts,
and my shield of valor
and inky deeds;
I never go without writing to my muse.