To The Poet, From His Faithless Muse
(If my Muse leaves me, will I have to pay her alimony in similes or metaphors?)
I will leave you one day
Bereft and bemused
The way that hungry winter
Leaves foundling spring
Not for want of love
Of droplets racing on a pane
The tumbrel grey all furied
At a spill of distant shore
On a far, unfathomable kind of sea
But gradually, and with few regrets
Helianthus bent towards Ithaca
Prows lift and watch and fall
Back to the mote and startled blue
Of this immediacy
I will leave you one day
Hands turned up like blooms
With their colours stained
Plagued by old monstrosities
Lost for tumbled words
Mumbling as you sleep
Uncertain if you are found or lost
But not alas, today
Still smiling as you weep
About the Creator
C S Hughes
C S Hughes grew up on the edges of sea glass cities and dust red towns. He has been published online and on paper. His work tends to the lurid, and sometimes to the ludicrous, but seeks beauty in all its ecstasy and artifice.
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