She was always picturesque in the garden

and the bright pop of colour amidst the grey city

In his words he tried to capture her beauty,

with objective distance, where she was ardent

She coaxed out something within him,

reignited the flames where the chandelier had grown dim

She soothed the heaving seas of his fears

and knew how to brush away his tears

With a firm but intelligent touch,

she sculpted his soul while he made her legend out

 

She was his first muse

and he can’t believe that she’s gone

It hasn’t stopped his pen

He grits his teeth and writes on

He doesn’t mourn their loss –

he mourns the weight of their liaison

Every subsequent symphony

sounds like a swan song.

 

She was always the ballerina in his heart,

dancing out scenes filled with strength and spirit

Though she could be stormy, never one to pose or sit

and somehow they still lived worlds apart

Colour can only last so long before the monochrome hand

reaches out to reshape its desired land

Perhaps they were merely puppets on strings

or clueless cosmic playthings

Her leaving his life was to mar

him permanently; and all he could see was the scar

 

She was his first muse

and he can’t believe she’s gone now

He mends his broken pen

and pretends to fall in with the crowd

He doesn’t drink to forget –

he drinks to feel what it’s like to drown

In his mind he sees his world catch fire

and lets it burn down.