my words have lost themselves. my last muse died, and his atoms don't speak to me anymore. it must be a pale land for him beyond the grave.

so my muse is standing there blue-skinned, and her hair is green today, her eyes wide and catty. as she stares at me she puts her hands on her hips and says, "take a risk." she's been sulking a while, a recluse, waiting for winter. she is no worse for it, appearing lithe, her skin taut over muscles, smooth and hard as cold wax. my dreams are ( Read more... )