To the muse
It's been a thousand moons
I twisted the ink close,
Put up my notebook on a shelf,
And laid in its sheaves a crimson rose.
Time played away like a melody –
Cafuned the writer into a dull slumber.
White pillows felt like clouds of words
The sleeping poet penned the songs of birds.
Many afternoons, my eyes rested.
On the browning edges belted in leather
And often in a moment's flicker,
I supposed picking up my feather.
Basking in time, the edges tanned
Perhaps, ink was dripping through the veins of a page,
My rose had dried and sunk low
I was busy keeping up with the flow.
With every spin of the earth,
I lost some thread from my spool
Until nothing was left to weave a word –
I picked up the needle but my vision blurred.
After a thousand moons,
I brushed the dust and leafed through the past –
It glowed like a scripture gilded in gold
The ghost-like words turned my fingers cold.
I've sipped away the afternoons
Trying to summon the muse.
I wait for the dictation that's revealed in a blink,
I mix tears to drench the drying ink
And dip my flattened rose –
All in vanity – Muse, rebloom my dead prose!
Noushin Nuri is an early bird fighting the world to maintain her sleep schedule. Reach her at [email protected]