Many nights, there are sonnets lingering
They come to me when the dawn crawls beneath the horizon
And dusk rises above the ground
When I close my eyes, I can always see them
Dancing through the air in black and white
Dressed in tulle and ballerina pumps
Jasmine and lavender plaited into their hair
Many nights, I hope that they will sit with me a while
They seem so close, it is as if I have known them all this time
They are strange and terrifying
But mesmerising all the same
I plug my pen into my heart, like a drip to the vein
It cuts at first
The way a thorn pricks your finger
Sometimes, it draws blood
And in the red, I hope to see roses form from my thoughts
The drops fall onto the crisp page and colour it scarlet
and with them are dreams I once believed I had forgotten
Some nights, there are more thorns than roses
A price to trade for fulfillment
The artist and the muse
Some nights, the petals float afar
Just out of reach
I want to hold on to them
Keep them close to my chest
But they are not to be contained
So I watch them drift, and as they do, they hum that they will return
One day
Some day
When I’m ready for them to stay.
