The Muse

Just like an artist with their muse, 

A poet has someone whom they lose.

A person who changed the poet’s heart,

Turned their writing into a form of art.

A love so broken that they have to write,

A love so broken after a fight.

She clings on tight so as not to fall, 

Waiting longer for that dreaded call.

The days pass by, like a flash, 

Until suddenly there comes a crash.

All good things have an end.

A parent, sibling, or even a friend.

This time is different, though, the little girl says.

Putting on her black dress.

That dreaded call that took her muse, 

Tells her that she has to choose. 

A choice to stay quiet when rage is all she feels,

A choice to stay quiet as sadness heals.

Just like an artist with their muse,

Everyone has someone they lose.