Muse by Lucy Jones

tomorrow you will be painted into
a landscape
you say you do not feel it yet
but it’s still coming
like a bad omen

now your hands are cold
but you just love the feeling
of the pulse at your neck,
press a finger to the vein,
your eye on someone’s foot

you will not think of it yet:
your eyes spread into
a sprawling countryside
your fingers stretched to become
the branches of some tree
your heart
melted into the earth
melted into the stillness

you will sit with your heartbeat
and keep the world at the pace
of your blood

you find it hard
to feel too many things
all at once

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