poem: a Sunday evening yearning

after a celebrationof the cold winter's
harvest fest, I read

I read and muse myself
with a little jealousy
with a little envy and
with a small sorrow
my small heart carries

I want to be a muse too
to someone who
sees right through me

but I'm sure they'd see
the chaos I try to hide
away and look away from
the warmth I want to give

look at that heart with
its love - ready and waiting
to be someones'. Maybe yours.

but I know there's none
in this room to muse
me or use me - even
for a heartbreak or
a poem from a hurricane
of words left unsaid from
my random, scared, sad,
alone, chaotic mind

and so, I muse myself
into writing a poem of
being a muse to a poet
whose heart I deserve not
yet whose words I desire
like a sin I wish to consume

all jealousy vanishes if
I know who you sight
with your brown beaded eyes

all envy dies if I know
you're loved the way you love
with warmth, smile, laughter
and beside a "her"
who'll not be me

all sorrow melts away
freeing me in this cold
winter evening if I know
I was one of your poems
or a dream or a masterpiece

but I can hear you say,
"Oh baby, but aren't you
the soul to the universe
I've locked away; in many
years I haven't touched you and
if I do now - you may turn to dust"

so, please do, I beg.

let me be the dust that belongs
in the same room as you
if not a muse to your poetry

let me be touched
by your sinful poets'
hands which write and bleeds
ink into a canvas
and always about someone not me

my love, either muse me into your thoughts
and write like you cannot live as the words choke
you; or turn me to dust


I just want to be forever, immortal and free
I just want to be someone's poem

that's all I yearn, love.


RK
15 Jan 2023
18.45 IST