Artistry

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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