Is it weird that my muse
appears to be driving my car,
sprinting up hill on my bicycle, or
shredding a dead asphalt highway?
Inspiration is a series of actions;
not a human-clad spirit, flickering above.
It’s not born of our physical image.
It’s our fighting to survive; claw tongue fire.
Scoops of dearest saliva, quelling hysteria.
It’s the spiral symphony, false life
keeps us from living true.