Your honor;
My amusing muse has long moved on and is now on the loose. Lost in the minefield of my mind, you roam about upending dressers and dressing up as an end to the means which mean nothing to me. Amused and bemused, confused by a muse long gone, the gonging in my heart is lounging but not for long. Is it wrong to hope that she returns? Turning the urn from mourning to moaning, groaning and throwing tantrums and fits, she'll flit about lighting up the corners of my bedroom, bedding the coroners of who visit the scene of my crime. "Who did this?" They'll ask of her, and she'll just grin seductively, an echo of the dreams I never dared to clean from the walls and halls. Swabs of dirt and grime and blood will line the plastic baggies destined to moulder forever in the forgotten drawers of the police station, wasting away, wasting their effort on pointless the task of piecing together the mess of my death. It's her, she did it, this is all her fault, but who can fault her in that dress? She dresses for success, and my how successful she is, succeeding the throne I'd thrown her from with such grace and disdain, deigning to reign my heart from the gutter where I cast her aside, trying to break my addiction to her fiction. She's fictional, you see, just a figment of my imagination, a destination for a nation, impatient and satiated, slaking her thirst on my veins. I'll never be rid of her, she'll haunt my days, flaying me from the inside. How can I display my pain? To admit her dominance is to give credence to her torment, and then she'll have won. Then she'll leave me alone, finally and forever. For never shall I want for another as long as she's by my side, haunting my bride.
Forever yours,
X
My amusing muse has long moved on and is now on the loose. Lost in the minefield of my mind, you roam about upending dressers and dressing up as an end to the means which mean nothing to me. Amused and bemused, confused by a muse long gone, the gonging in my heart is lounging but not for long. Is it wrong to hope that she returns? Turning the urn from mourning to moaning, groaning and throwing tantrums and fits, she'll flit about lighting up the corners of my bedroom, bedding the coroners of who visit the scene of my crime. "Who did this?" They'll ask of her, and she'll just grin seductively, an echo of the dreams I never dared to clean from the walls and halls. Swabs of dirt and grime and blood will line the plastic baggies destined to moulder forever in the forgotten drawers of the police station, wasting away, wasting their effort on pointless the task of piecing together the mess of my death. It's her, she did it, this is all her fault, but who can fault her in that dress? She dresses for success, and my how successful she is, succeeding the throne I'd thrown her from with such grace and disdain, deigning to reign my heart from the gutter where I cast her aside, trying to break my addiction to her fiction. She's fictional, you see, just a figment of my imagination, a destination for a nation, impatient and satiated, slaking her thirst on my veins. I'll never be rid of her, she'll haunt my days, flaying me from the inside. How can I display my pain? To admit her dominance is to give credence to her torment, and then she'll have won. Then she'll leave me alone, finally and forever. For never shall I want for another as long as she's by my side, haunting my bride.
Forever yours,
X
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