Like July in winter, a muse as perfect as she is a ghost. She’s intimate with flight, because she’s a bird of the sea. She’s perfect for me, but her imperfectness can never be. I’m only with her, in her royal court at Kush, past the weight of the day, in the dreams of the could have been. She flies with her broken wings and catches my fall, but will never know the depth of it all. She’s a mirage in my mind, of qualities transferred by the shores of my dreams. How I’ve fallen.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: