My muse

I toss myself in the swamp of your thoughts.

My muse
Photo by A n v e s h / Unsplash

You’re my muse,
I toss myself in the swamp of your thoughts,
my eyes saccading between points,
looking at tiny bugs across things,
around and above.

I try to stop, but in vain
I writhe instead, in absolute pain,
I enjoy it nevertheless—the feeling is mixed,
Lights like little bits of bokeh jewels,
shimmery and shadowy all the same,
pinks, white, reds and royal blues,
shades of oranges, yellows and sea green hues.

People—moving and standing still,
between portions of grey, white and black.
Colours—appearing and disappearing,
between neons, electrics and fluorescents.
Patterns—forming and dissolving,
between lines, ridges and curves.

I’m lying here.
You’re my muse, I think.
I have a conclusion.

I’d rather wallow in this mire,
All this while I thought you were my muse,
It was all here, but never really there,
It was nothing but a doltish little ruse.