Why for Muses?

Some type of motion, filtered through blue skies, musing upon brown lenses; this choice of voices, that inner space, this arc of throws; as fair as beauty, as dark as Africa, as sable as caramel. It becomes this force, to bring out so much, this vessel as a motivator; to see by chance, this chi of jasper, this jasmine ink, this woman by signs his addiction; those intuitive brows, that perfect nose, those lips by arts his ballet; to die by villains, as opposed to painting flowers, this envy at roots a monster; to persevere, searching for heroines, this lake by fires his soul; that ivory flesh, that silken texture, those legs through infinity; as cold to moments, some type of orange this love, as one hesitant afore a red light; to muse from afar, as digging out riches, to let go by winds those minds; this hectic feeling, one pale by mirrors, at ease that course of brains; this pinkish rose, a symbol of arts, that death that comes with seeking; this jungle of tensions, as mine is invisible, and no man shall see her; this fatal scar, this magenta wound, as grieving at root a cortex. I met a river—as so hesitant to see, as repeated our mistakes; but what of lightning, to possess a rhythm, where muses inflict thunder; that deep addiction, this beauty by neckline, this anklet akin to this blouse; that grave wisdom, that woman near crazy, that lagoon to morph unto sculptures: those blue eyes for some, those brown eyes for others, those eyes turn hazel our sun. It had t be pain, peering at khaki green eyes—that lavender turmoil; to sketch a fortress—where these are a set of keys, by no chance shall another enter; this winter of love, so foolish his mind, as crazed as madmen; for this is us—my woman for glory, where no man shall see; this pious mystery, clothed in cloaks, this repulsion for admiration; for feelings churn, to know for sinning, where his texture is cultured that life. I can’t remember, as if for blind, the tenor of this voice; this gentle woman, angered by styles, a bit wanting those that fawn; that outer lance, those choice of words, that once to test his wits: I must confess—this mere savant, so skilled but lacking; to feel that aura, this sensitive man, as to appreciate those perfections; to know about hours, even years, applied to studying crafts. I fall for this, a man for beauties, this thing for molded muses; that silent inedia, that treasure of prana, that cryptic pair of lenses; to know by acts, this hidden vex, this ambiance of graces.