“My dear, my love,

My tortured soul

My siren,

You deserve nothing but a gilded throne”

The artist speaks

Ever loving and romantic

Lilting words, flourishing poetry

Ranging from political affairs

to motherly grief

The muse sits

Cast in the artist’s shadow

Always in the painting or the prose

Chewing more than she can swallow

The artist paints

Her brush singing tunes

The curve of her lovers cheekbone

The entire essence of her muse

Her muse sits patiently

A doll on display

Because what her words can’t say,

Her actions convey

But sometimes she wonders

If she’s being used

If she is noting more

Than the art, the muse

The artist makes millions

Thriving off her emotions

She holds her muse close

Always wishing to be closer

And so they live,

In constant wonder

Who is the artist without the muse?

What kind of couple are they together?

The ending is tragic

As it so often is

But almost always,

An artist will argue, that’s the magic

Our artist’s art

Shines so bright

Because she conveys her muse’s sorrow

From her eyes

Sadness and sorrow

is a force to be reckoned with

A woman powerful

Enough to become a myth