Of Muses And Other Ghosts
A Martyr Of Fantasies
And then the monsters,
they all gathered in my house
to see the people I named my friends
feast on the dreams in my soul
dreams that I dragged all my life, through the places I went to pray
for love, to the muses of others,
that now I struggle to write about
without misshaping their shillouettes, appearing and disappearing,
dancing with my pride, my love,
through the fumes of their cigarettes.
How surprised they are, to realise that I'm not dead,
just resting for a while, recuperating the love
I was fooled to lay at your feet,
in the dirt left by the sins of those that you loved before me.
But don't you dare cry for me now,
for I'm not crying for you anymore.
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