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A Muse Without an Artist

So, stepping lightly, pinky out,my delicate fingers raising the porcelain teacup full of milk. I sip, and take my time, till the cup is emptied. Upstairs, fleet and quiet, an angular shadow leaving soft creakings on the steps. Eyes rimmed in black, a cape thrown back, chin thrust forward in defiance. Head up! Arms in the air! Pose for a picture that will never be taken. A moment of granduer displayed only for myself. The clouds are out! The neighbor mows! And I crept quietly from room to room, soft footsteps on the carpet. Dramatic glares over the shoulder challenge my reflection, the eccentric figure in black. I move to the music in my head, and whisper hissingly to myself: the soundtrack to my life is inspiring. The lights are out, I'm in the dark, prepared to frighten people who are not there. Upon my bed, novel in hand, i stretch languidly and perfect the accent of reaching toes and fingers, wrists fluidly twisted. Black glasses discarded for yearning eyes, a muse without an artist. Eyes enlarging, pupils terrifying, the birds are unafraid, and sing on anyway. Looking haughtilly through the pane upon my kingdom, perfumes swirling menacingly around me, surely, when I am alone, my life is but a dream.





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