His muse

The gust of wind blew
falling upon the ears of that man
singing, almost poetic
that became his music
upon which he weaved
lyrics romantic.
Sky ablaze with red,
the color of love,
made the painter stroke over the paper
with his brush.
Fire danced vigorously,
burning the dead
sweeping off a dancer off his feet
who gracefully waved like a thread.
It was the writer’s turn
to tell what was his muse
though he had a lot in mind,
he refused
to tell that his dreams were born of imagination
and fantasy
that only he can see
a world of his own
that shall remain a mystery.


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