Will You Be My Runaway Muse?
I have two coins
behind my eyes,
mirrors I use to self-reflect,
I see runaway women
walking in the corridors
of my mind,
their feet blackened
with holy dirt
from the promised land,
they peel back my thoughts,
like skin from rotting apples,
smearing the dripping fruit,
on the walls of my brain,
painting dream murals.
I am a slave to my muses.
A head full of runaway women,
my madhouse dollhouse.
Let’s play.