The Muse

Splintered, her world is bleeding, her mind turbulent. The hate and the
gore beating against her stolen frame, long forgotten by her faithless
lover. The memories can't be seen as her spirit fails to thrive. The fire
burns the hand of time in this winter of her discontent. She rises, soul
icy with vengeful rhymes, drenched in sin she is catalyzed.

Her lips are bruised with ardent and fragrant kisses. His lust tears at
her skin, her hands, her breath is taken by his. Perfumed with false
love, her knowledge of times before are fading, a frail ghost against
his reality. She longs to burn those heartless stars that cast their
judging eyes upon her. Deserted, she pours herself out until she
disappears.

Her hurt and rage fill the air, crimson she is torn. She plucks a flower
to watch the blood flow from crucified stems. Bound to this mortal
coil, she is broken ivory, she is fairest turmoil. These cloaks and masks
are not enough to hide her from the collapse. Petals fall from the sky,
the crosses pin her to heaven. Cursed, she lets her heart break, knowing
the eye of God never held compassion for her.

The air is full of poisoned truths, the look glass holds her there.
Chained to invisible skies, she is left to shatter. A dying breath never
seemed so sweet, her tears turn to venom. To shrug off this flesh,
that this captured spirit would fly free, she would give everything.

Knives of ice puncture her lungs, crucified roses stained with her horror.
Doves dart down to brush her womb, that piece of her sold for nothing.
The webs that trap her, burnt and fragile, inside this bloodstained view,
slip away. No one to mourn her, as her gaze seems to fade.

An altar lies before her, frozen in history's maze, a splinter of silver,
her sight covered in frost. She lies open, a book to be read, to be
beaten and mutilated, to be lost. Life transcends the stain of the tomb.

She lie, nude, waiting for those that destroy, those that will cause
the rift, cause the damage to be done. They tear her apart, like wolves
tear a lamb. Her blood flows like ribbons fair, her hand grasping for
something, but only touching air. They drag her down to hell below,
no longer a muse.