The sleeping muse

My muse, he sleeps.
Closed eyes, folded limbs.
I silently look, counting
every eyelash falling onto his cheek.
I glance at him,
piercing the veil of his eyelids
over the web of his thoughts,
old will-o’-the-whisps, new whims.

I take a dive
and enter his head, find it
full of emotions and dreams, alive.
His mind is a room
walls the colour of coal.
Inky black, yet welcoming me
and my soul.
After all, this is home to me…
This is where I’d rather be.

Cobwebs, old books, and the rain.
There are trees as old as him
and some born yesterday,
the stems of which hurt
the balls of my feet.

A twig of balsam catches my ankle
Blood, now, his spotless floor
I try to run,I try to swim out
Before he wakes up
Before he finds out.

I trip, I fall
I hurt, my ankle crimson
The sound of my own breath
jars against my eardrums

He wakes up, a storm in his mind
I get blown about, with lost lights
He picks me out and sets me on his palm,
smiles, bright as the sun.
Whispers to me, ‘You’re mine, little one.’

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