Of Muses And Other Ghosts
Their wings were on my back,
and they expected me to return
but I never did, back then I thought
that I, by myself had grown those wings.
So I kept on, pushing out of their hearts
leaving them not even my shadow,
but my memory, to make love to it
when they'll get bored of making love to each other
to stretch it over their heads, to make it sky,
to sip from it like from a cup, my poems
and through them, my heart.
That's why I never returned,
not that I didn't know, but,
I didn't felt like their blood, like their child.
They were monsters, and I was afraid
that I might become a monster too,
a skin covering not a heart, but
their sins, like it says in the bibles they
put on their chest when they go to sleep.
Their god was not my god, their god was not real.
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