The Artist and the Muse

She observed his hues- enough to glean

to paint the muse, in space unseen

to occupy her mind and envelop her view

all from her perception, the muse she drew

He took no instruction, rejected the weight

in harmless imperfection, he’d seal their fate.

He couldn’t release past pain endured

and thought it best to live life assured

The artist, enthralled, didn’t dare look away

frightened he’d disappear one faithful day.

She vowed she’d never let it take place

and continued immortalizing her muse’s face.

Unsuspecting and roaming free

the muse hunted solely for remnants of glee.

He noticed her watching, awestruck-amazed

and shifted away, distressed by her gaze

She wanted to keep him- preserved, in place

Didn’t know the extent of hurt that took place

The art she made, had kept it bound

he realized thereafter, he never wanted to be found

He removed himself slowly, every color, every stroke

the clarity of truth, replaced with ease of a joke.

The artist grew weary, then filled with rage

at the fact her love could only exist on a page

She still wanted the showcase, only seeing her way

cause what choice did she have, if he wouldn’t say?

The muse had thought “we could just…be”,

but his silence provoked lonesome mystery.

In truth, the artist just wanted to be seen

her quest for recognition, ultimately green.

The canvas she painted to highlight the muse

was a mirror, gold-plated, and fondly used.

She thought it an honor, a part of her healing

to be an object of ardor, of art, of meaning.

The gift she could give him, was his painful reminder.

Instead of a canvas, presence would’ve been kinder.

It was a tragic misconception

no one at fault to blame

simply a terrible misdirection

that brought forth more shame.

The muse found a rift, and escaped under cover.

The artist held her mirror. Once again, her fondest lover.

To receive is a gift, to give back is another.

And sometimes it is agony to see,

and be seen by each other.