Suburban Decay

These saints and martyrs entice me.

They stretch between canvas and page,

from vinyl to photograph; from muse to muse.

Patti, Issac, Camus and Plath.

They shed temporal chains, 

their voices become immortal.

I yearn to be with them and to entwine our souls.

To become artist and muse, for artist and muse alike.

My heart would break into Issac’s crumbs,

My tears dry on cotton pillowcases, 

While Ellie sings me asleep.

In the morning I will wake to coffee and a cigarette, 

Contemplating whether Buckley ever felt stagnant or caught.

I would feel too fraudulent to meet their gaze.

My internal tirade against the mere suggestion of creation,

The unforgivable sin of ambition,

The audacity of indecision.

-Rob Padfield