but he was a poet,

who loved his words.

often enough to forget,

the one, of who's beauty

he wrote volumes.

her grey-blue eyes,

and honey-brown hair.

he felt like a slave,

of love and ink.

and who was she then?

the love, or inspiration?

his muse, disdained.

she felt torn sometimes,

between poetry and life.

she was immortal,

but merely breathing.

caught in the cosmos,

they lived on, as the words died.

the only thing that survived,

was the silence.