he is my muse.
the very artwork, the very masterpiece
i observe.
with every chip and every carve of his
cold ghostly grey statue,
i draw,
with utmost precision and sharpness,
careful not to miss a shading of the lips,
or the nose,
or the eyes,
for i loved them so, despite the imperfections and the asymmetry of his imperfectly perfect
countenance.
he is the catalyst,
that transforms and spurts my welter of
unexplained and unspoken emotions
into verses and stanzas and couplets,
and even the empty spaces between,
with my best magniloquence
as i flower my writing
with him as my muse.
i feel his beauty and his soul.
my writing and my artworks;
they are all the epitome and the quintessence
of dearest him.
my worldless words suddenly escaped
from my unmoving lips and,
with his fleeting absence that made my heart grow
more unwavering than ever,
i weave his woolly threads
on my fabric;
he cut deep enough til
i bled on paper.
would you feel flattered if you knew
all my pieces are about you?
i realise that my words were not my own,
for they were merely shards of the lyrics
he had given my spirit to sing,
as if he inked a serenade of melodies and harmonies
onto my score.
many have ignited my fire before,
yet they snuffed it out,
leaving my spirit to freeze in the wilderness.
but he was the first of them all
to keep the embers in my ash piles
alive and glowing.
