Muse

I am a simple truth hidden behind opaque oil and pigments.

I acquiesce, solidifying my new being. Not malleable nor spiritless,

only myself.

I carry the epitome of expression, or perhaps, a metaphor –

the script to one’s soul, unguided.

I lived a life on a crooked easel.

It was a part of me as I was a part of it.

But it remains unstained. Truth is, I am miserable.

I find myself enclosed behind glass.

Framed in a swirl of gold, titled a foreign name.

I was created from imagination, a silent

announcement. I saw her satisfaction, an insufferable gaze.

The lights pain me when her shadow casts away.

Within the art, life is frozen in time, but in her eyes a future

flourishes, like a vernal bloom.