My muse was born
to walk on thorns
and wear wild nettles
as her crown.
My muse can never
become rose
because her karma
weighs her down.
Globs of sun
like spilt egg-yolk
ooze between
stained lips of clouds.
Two cats crouch
like black hairy frogs.
My muse is busy,
weaving shrouds.
5.06.05
Muse of Thorns
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105072000270
Свидетельство о публикации №105072000270
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