My
muse of magical manipulation
Plays
the sweet song of
A
musical kiss.
She
sings of tragedies unnumbered,
Her
song one of her favorites,
Hated
yet on endless repeat,
The
beat infectious. Tantalizing.
My
muse spreads her wings,
Crying
Her
song to the world,
It's
meaning never fully understood.
Seeing
a helpless soul,
She
eyes the kill, claws splayed.
On
nearing her pray, her fingers reach out,
Her
lips seeking acceptance where rot holds true.
She
need not eye the kill nor kiss the crow.
She
need only return home,
Her
wings clipped by present lover's
Longing
embrace.
Gravity
holds them down for too long now.
Oh,
to fly.
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