Muse
His voice was near, his hands were far
Porcelain and coated in paint
I was revered, my skin unmarked
By the artist disguised as the saint
But the muse knows not, how one perceives
She exists in and of the mind
No more than a thought, no need to deceive
She herself might as well be blind
Copyright © Madi Bowers | Year Posted 2025
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