Muse by Baka Gothic Kitsune
This past May,
I fell down a flight of stairs,
And landed on the top floor.
There, I made my home,
Sipping aching warmth with milk and sugar,
While I ignored the ringing in the corridor. . .
But morning turned to noon,
And soon dark was on the rise,
And I flipped the switch for lights,
But the bulb was dead.
Silence flew in cold,
Through the open window,
"And aching cold with milk gone sour,
Is hardly worth drinking at all, at all," I thought.
But on my way to get fresh milk,
So scared of the stairs was I,
That I fell up the elevator shaft,
Straight to Hell's basement,
And how queer to find a muse,
Sitting in the doorway there,
Beautiful: Battered, Bruised, and Broken,
But all the better for it.
Child, A Continuation of Muse by Baka Gothic Kitsune
She looks at me,
Imploring me
With the bruise on her cheek,
With the scratches on her legs,
With the blood on her bitten lip,
With the bandage draped across her eyes,
With her desperately outstretched hand.
She begs me to stay
With her single despairing whimper,
And she is my child,
So how could I ever refuse her?
Day calls me up to the lower floors,
But each night I return to her prison.
I take her dirty, trembling fingers in mine,
And she clings to me,
Like a lifeline, a savior.
Little does she know that she is mine.
I sit beside her,
And she cradles me in her arms,
Rocking me to sleep,
Running her fingers through my hair.
She whispers sweet nothings in my ear,
And who would understand her but I?
Who would comprehend her silver voice,
Quixotic in nature,
Like silliness and nonsense
To anyone who has no ears to hear.
For no one has ears to hear,
That which a muse might say,
So I listen,
And translate as best I can
Her twisted verse,
And each word loosens her binds.
At last the bandage falls away. . .
And my mouth falls open.
She is my child,
But those are not my eyes. . .
This past May,
I fell down a flight of stairs,
And landed on the top floor.
There, I made my home,
Sipping aching warmth with milk and sugar,
While I ignored the ringing in the corridor. . .
But morning turned to noon,
And soon dark was on the rise,
And I flipped the switch for lights,
But the bulb was dead.
Silence flew in cold,
Through the open window,
"And aching cold with milk gone sour,
Is hardly worth drinking at all, at all," I thought.
But on my way to get fresh milk,
So scared of the stairs was I,
That I fell up the elevator shaft,
Straight to Hell's basement,
And how queer to find a muse,
Sitting in the doorway there,
Beautiful: Battered, Bruised, and Broken,
But all the better for it.
Child, A Continuation of Muse by Baka Gothic Kitsune
She looks at me,
Imploring me
With the bruise on her cheek,
With the scratches on her legs,
With the blood on her bitten lip,
With the bandage draped across her eyes,
With her desperately outstretched hand.
She begs me to stay
With her single despairing whimper,
And she is my child,
So how could I ever refuse her?
Day calls me up to the lower floors,
But each night I return to her prison.
I take her dirty, trembling fingers in mine,
And she clings to me,
Like a lifeline, a savior.
Little does she know that she is mine.
I sit beside her,
And she cradles me in her arms,
Rocking me to sleep,
Running her fingers through my hair.
She whispers sweet nothings in my ear,
And who would understand her but I?
Who would comprehend her silver voice,
Quixotic in nature,
Like silliness and nonsense
To anyone who has no ears to hear.
For no one has ears to hear,
That which a muse might say,
So I listen,
And translate as best I can
Her twisted verse,
And each word loosens her binds.
At last the bandage falls away. . .
And my mouth falls open.
She is my child,
But those are not my eyes. . .
