Her Muse

these words are not poetry

swimming liquid fire through ashes

of dead phoenix veins.


no, they are rough and callused

with over use, their own faithless artists

spewing black tar from their lungs

in the hopes to one day breathe again.


nothing moves her.


she would rather scribble her heart out

on physical manifestations of her own reality-

on skin and bones she worships like a temple.


“Write of me,” he says, “right here.”-

planting sun-stricken kisses

along the hollow of her burning throat.


“I want to be where your heart sleeps.”