The Lost Muse

By Vipul Sehgal

What should I paint now?

Rather, 'who' should I paint now?

The canvas stares back at me,

desolate and forlorn,

longing to be stroked upon.

The brush sits dry.

Once dripping with the hues of her face,

now shines a smile

discernibly wry.

The colours who deftly sang

her intricacies so abstruse,

refuse to sing that score

now that she's gone.

Now that I'm without a muse.

I sit glazed, pondering the void,

with the tools all lounging nigh;

broken without a bruise

as the chasm lingers on,

as time flounders by.

Lingers all over the place,

over the canvas, the paint;

unseen,

over the chair that she graced,

for which the air around preens:

The scent

of her mesmeric being;

abating the fire that raged,

leaving to my heart

its woes.

Awaiting the embers to ebb away,

I put down the brush at last,

reminiscing

the muse that was.

By Vipul Sehgal