Poets take their pen in the mouth and thread a map
a map on the saline stomach
of the muse, pour in some cerulean ink,
inhale the movements of the iris, 
as it absorbs, hesitates, gleams

Words are sworn, of its curtailed grace,
of its fluid tenderness and how it scorches the flesh

I am a poetess. Looking for a muse, this perfection of a woman
I ain’t compelled by the thrill of this curving fountain 

Henceforth, I hunt.
I transform into a poetic weapon and start to shoot
at the mirror, scales of silver, BAng
Drag my bleeding finger along
the blooming tip of the nose, the murdered landscape beneath,
pink rivulets of colored light, beads and shrapnels,
lend them a flavor, a heightened hue of ardor

Soak my body in the language of tongue,
gluey, lipid screams
screams like hurricanes, hurricanes of pleasure
of devotion, of curses

I take the final strand of humid bones
lurching through the crackling air
and swallow it, gasp, gasp

‘ Where’s my muse ? ’ I say
to the sinking room, the staircase crawling through my hair
Look down at my body and detonate a song
the muse is a wound, large and red 
my muse is a red song, a drifting red blob of quarks and uncertain 

#napowrimo Picture Prompt
© Aakriti Kuntal

9 thoughts on “The Hidden Muse

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