THE MUSE
He painted her once, on a pink velvet throne,
Raven black hair, primrose kimono.
A wall of knowledge he’d built for her,
Creaked heavy with inspiration they secretly shared.
Coffee eyes shining, she uplifted him each day
As, cup in hand, he passed, dreams dragging him away
To his blue box by the cherry tree, the perfect place to make
A self portrait so incredible, art’s world would surely quake
She watches, she waits
Hoping that he’s not too late
To watch the crow rise after stealing the corn
She waits
Oh she waits
She waits
She heard each painted primal scream, as a canvas began anew
His lovely face now camouflaged against those walls of deepest blue
A head full of music and Byrd song that no-one else could hear
Drowned out her words of hope and love until it became clear
That he was gone, lost to his art, and she, left hanging there.
As time went on, she gathered dust, her vision clouded now
A hairline crack slowly appeared, and travelled down her brow
A frown now etched into the glass, that wouldn’t smooth away,
Meant he no longer gazed at her as he passed by on his way.
Her beauty faded by the sun that had shone in her heart for him
Freckled skin, once bright with joy, now creased and paper thin
Weight grew heavy on her frame, it’s string could take no more
Until finally it snapped and broke and she smashed onto the floor.
She watches, she waits
Knowing that he’s now too late
To watch the crow rise after stealing the corn
She waits
Oh she waits
She waits
Copyright Helen Temperley
