Forlorn and scattered cigarette butts,

Empty glasses with traces of rum,

Wait in anticipation or just inspiration.

But the end is near, for his empty home.


An empty mind is a devil’s workshop,

He heard them say a couple of times.

But the devil’s got a muse,

And he lived to fight it with all his might.


Not a word of love,

Not a trace of human emotion,

He’d grown so strong,

That now he can’t be broken, or so he thought.


Yet he stands there watching her leave,

Sure that hell was a place right here indeed,

The place she left him, alone and wounded,

The muse walks away,

Taking with her his artistry.




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