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.