The muse refused to reuse the loose leaves of leathered longings for songs of laughter and other musings.
Coffee obtruded by falsehood the cogs of this or that slog through the bogs of Taylor’s Falls. Cold colanders enlivened the dancing muse of photography and sunsets, with cats in the city all day long. Lovely. Lonely. And Luxuriously. Poorer winks of twinkled toast appreciated the service of encouragement to others–pockets notwithstanding–and officers with muffled drums reinstated the escutcheon after a week-and-a-half layoff. Askance puppies took their aunts askew when corrupt insolence proclaimed the gravel in the guts and muzzles full of tricks slumbering in a bucket of potent swords and lifeless floors.
If only he had risen above his station in life, comfort and transcendence would enlighten all muses with pomp and mischief.
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There’s a special kind of magic in words that don’t just tell a story but make you feel it. Your writing flows like a quiet river, carrying thoughts and images that stay long after reading. The way you paint pictures with words, blending past and present, gives everything a dreamlike feeling. It’s not just writing—it’s an experience, like stepping into a memory that isn’t yours but somehow feels familiar.
The familiar, yes. I feel it as if you knew just one more thing then all would make sense, and yet even without that one more thing there is still some sense and the ambiguity casts its own spell of meaning. Thanks for the comment! 🙂
As if there was a very violent storm, and while the captain was struggling with the sea, all the barrels fell into the sea. Who cares if the fishes would get drunk. The places and homes of the muses have always remained mysterious. Only they know who to appear to, even if they have someone calling them. But you can always make a wish, may the Sun never disappear, I bow with respect my dear friend. Thank you, Love, nia
That’s why we call them museums. 😀