MY MUSE

Since the day
she walked away
leaving me behind
in a disarray;
The half-writ page
lies neglected, askew
and the quill is dry
on the page, unused.
And so I wait
with bated breath,
for the sweet sound
of her returning step.
So that once more
the words may abound,
and unravel from her lips
onto the page, unwound.

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