Reaching out with broken hands
to salvage what's left of
a girl who's nothing more than
fragile,
disproportionately
unbeautiful.
The scent of smoke and water,
her wispy figure tells no tales
as it flies across the water,
lifeless,
inaudible
speech.
Falling with sad grace
twisting with unnatural
flexibility; limbs are
torn,
revealing
incomplete.
She burns, a butterfly
who simply forgot to fly north
to freeze, instead she's
only
a
moth.
Losing your inhibitions,
fighting against the one thing
that could've
(possibly)))
saved
her.
Weakness cannot become a strength
when your muse has long since
drowned in surrender
of
greater
things.
No one's hero
you watch your darling fall
her face cracking
with
your
iniquities.
You cannot blame yourself,
despite remembering a time of
sticky sweet kisses, bitter
on
the
inside.
Like acid trips and broken dreams
she fell away,
and you--you were
left
with
nothing.
Author notes
I suppose this merit's some kind of explanation. It is my experience of watching myself stop inspiring others and myself.
Trying to paint a picture of how it feels to watch you're muse fall from the pedestal they were upon.
Adding your comment: