Muse

He calls her his muse

Caresses her skin with his words

Claims her beauty facilitates his conception

Of the true essence of what will be

Paintbrush to his canvas of existence

Charcoal on the paper of his adulation

Of the contour of her cheek

Her silhouette when she removes her gown

Behind the veil of twilight

In the corner of his studio

Yet when the master lays down his implements

Of what he alleges is art

She sees his dream of her is nothing

But a barren sheet of unlined notebook paper

With but a smudge of color

And a dust of black

This inspiration he professes

Is but a cover for the emptiness

Of what he attempted to propagate

To win her love