The Many Muse

The Many Muse short poem

Photo by dalbera


Her body is the ever-punctured typewriter
Pricked by the fingertips of lovers and liars alike,
Since brick has been put upon brick to build –
She has been made into verse.

She is laced in souvenirs, splinters of a dismantled self;
Teeth strung into rarest ivory jewellery, lettered keys left derelict
To be fumbled with and greased until she is made to sing –
She is made to ring out in rhyme.

Her smallest kisses are ribbons wrapped in silk, loosely knotted
Lips strangling softly, her smile unkempt and homely like an un-tucked shirt.
Born into rhythm like waves, she never drags or rushes in her dance –
She moves along, perfectly in metre.

Like flowers evicted from their grassy beds, glassy palms do not devalue
But each donates more love than the last; she is the ever-expanding epic of allure.
She’s hidden in all the fleeting toesteps that grace the glossy pavements –
She will be found in what we pause to admire.

Our muses are many, all strangers and shrines,
But whose is most delicate, damned, and divine?

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Thomas Irvine

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A student of English and American Lit. and Poetry at the University of Leicester, currently on an exchange program at Kent State University in Ohio. My writing style changes more than my Netflix list, but generally I love working within rigid form and metre. It's personal poetry but in a style that intends to be universally acknowledged and appreciated, but above all else I just want to improve my writing, perfect my form.
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