My old muses have died and been buried in the dark. Heaped under clothes piled high on the corner of the bed. Lost in the cold and silence of that cage.
Her name, my dark muse, is Ash. She caked my skin and filled my lungs. Weighing me down and keeping me low. I felt the dust irritate my skin and my eyes. I needed to cast her aside but she clung to me tightly.
She had a sister, who was cold and bit equally deep into my skin. They locked me into solitude, deep in my hole, but they gave me fuel. Fuel for the pen which I'd pour onto the page.
Those muses are gone from me, cast away and buried deep. Now replaced by a new muse. One of warmth and light, that lifts and embraces with love not contempt. I hope she stays with me.
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