Welcome to the Mercurial Muser

She delays endings as if she were Penelope, purposely weaving and unweaving words at her loom. Conjuring ancient languages long since put to rest—for no real purpose now but to know that they were once spoken, once alive, once voiced by someone who mattered. That they weren’t just convenient elegies to bury the dead—hung like stars around overgrown burial plots, or worn as shrouds to conceal the decay. That she hadn’t imagined it—this once-burning thing. That her time on that treasure-filled shore wasn’t a hand-sewn fever dream—its memory rushing past as if it were sand in an hourglass that suddenly slipped through trembling hands.

Now she wakes in a bed far from Ithaca... far from the sparkling snow globe world she only ever briefly holds in her palms—shaking it now and then when the moment calls. Fingertips tapping on the glass of another life—to gaze upon the delicate, shining figures, to catch the glitter as it shimmers within the idyllic, frozen scene. She resists the urge to let her unhealed parts smash it to the floor just to set them free.

For a time it was magic. It was magical for a time...

Artifacts and Artifice

Updated: Mar 5

She's not a gallery piece

meant to be left hanging

like a painting

admired on the wall

revered for its beauty

in lieu of understanding

it at all.

She's not just another objet d'art

in this crowded home of archives

where the myopic patrons

pretend to live more cultured lives

shamelessly gawking

at precious artifacts

kept caged, untouched,

and beautifully staged

behind thick-panelled glass

where we place the highest value

not on present meanings

but more on fractured relics

that existed in the past.

No one ever remembers

what they see

they don’t recall the history

they just like the way

it all seems to shine

and they’re enamoured

by the mystery.

But there’s an admission cost

to walk around this museum

you can't keep a souvenir

unless you visit the mausoleum.

The dead talk but it’s dead talks

because ghosts haven’t much to say

the colour’s lost, the magic’s gone

and the world is turning grey.

Just remember we’re only instruments

meant to bring better things to life

now you’re laying in the morgue

wake up girl, take the knife

perform the post-mortem on yourself

don’t let your precious heart

end up on someone else’s murder shelf.

Decorticate your skin

peel back the the layers

examine the contents found within

don’t let anyone tear you apart

not your brain, not your body

not your words, nor your heart.

Your life is an offbeat melic

that's solely yours to understand

you can sing it anyway you want to

now that the pen is in your hand

this story is yours alone to claim

for you’re a glowing orb of light

floating wildly inside a frame.

You’re not just an ordinary face

crafting anemic designs

in an ordinary space

painting walls in shades

of 'greige’ and vanilla white

for a fickle customer

who says they’d prefer purple

but this is livable

and it won't keep them

up at night.

Remember yourself:

you like unmade beds

and dirty minds

and being naked

with undrawn blinds

you like eager tongues

exploring places

only you can find.

You’re the one who brings fire

you're the one they desire

and you'll write your own epitaph

as if you were Helen of Troy

watching the entire city

burn on her behalf.

Burn it all.

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