IV
I’ d rather it were a muse dangling above my head in her purple cloud dress than a crystal chandelier of gaudy pattern floating in the manycoloured sky
a painted backdrop is between the vanished bookcase and wall each breeze brings the noise of tea-cup-clatter a loud tea room
separator of light
I am scraping my bare foot on a bright tiger claw and I am agitated down to my bruised flesh
give me the muse the reed song song of the bones a hollow bone a twin reeds’ tune
anything but this noise
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