Of Muses And Other Ghosts
Are You My Muse?
In the poem you appeared
it was not my poem, but
someone else's poem, and you
more beautiful than I remembered you
clouded my heart again, with your eyes
and everything he wrote, that resembled you.
My muse in another's poem,
somehow you escaped my palm
and treaded on someone else's heart.
Today you are not only mine anymore, today
you are his bride.
His love resembled you more
than my poems shaped you, are you
his love now?
Should I bow my head and leave,
should I find another muse?
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