Muse Chaser

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Object of My Dejection

Dry leaves blanket an abandoned bench
Under a withering tree
Shadowed in interrupted day

The storm masquerades as night
Slithering under flesh peeled back
Knocking angrily on tired bones beneath

She blinks defensively at the first drops
As the storm prepares to dive into her
To envelop her in humid embrace

She dares not exhale
Clutching his aroma in her aching lungs
To keep his essence close to her heart

Fingers chase her perpetual yearning
For a silhouetted muse
Faceless and out of reach

Five decades after the first stroke
Will the unfinished painting still whisper his name?
Will the artist wonder all those years later:

Is she out there somewhere
Still chasing her dream?


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