An artist,
A title I called myself moons ago,
Where I mold skin through the warmth of my hands,
Becoming fixated on appearances,
Never putting my lovers on exhibition,
Because museums lock you away from fingerprints.
I long for a soft body and the smell of flesh,
Instead of a cold exterior and ivory dust.
I desire a kiss worthy of breathing existence,
So that we may delight in life-making ourselves.
No God takes pity on me,
And every Goddess envies your beauty.
Let me position you with arms bent,
So that I may attempt to embrace.
At least now, you never grow old,
Frozen in time,
A mere fossil of my essence,
Until I adopt a new profession.
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Muses to Kleio
PoetryThis poetry collection explores love, lust, betrayal, and a dash of rage. Bonus points if you're a Greek mythology fan! Written from a female perspective, it goes through the motions of complicated relationships, cheating, longing, and moments of pa...
