The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

  • Mood:

Tempered steel

My muse is confined.
It is reclusive and offers
her gender only as an appertif
to my woes. She is armed-
an arsenal of phrases sharper
than 1000 folded steel
and each is bound for me.
It is because nothing is fresh - woe
is over used. Nothing compared
to agony, suffering
sexuality and free lust is new, needed
by her to quell drives
she helps me understand.

Have I offended, my love?
Creativity, sapped by walls
I did not paint,
is a bald-faced lie to my existence.
I cannot weep while eating;
the semblence of three square meals
is grafted to quickening images,
and I am no hunter with quicksilver blade;
Stalking forests with bronze nibs
is my only course - a meal for a tiger
body and mind.

I am without pride nor admonishment
when my muse, gorgon and cow!
abandons me to a forest of nails.
Love is novel in abadonment. Only courage
seeking the face of a blank page
is worth my time. The nails are dull
for I am tempered steel.
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded