The Muse

Flowers are handpicked and the art is handmade Where does the muse belong then?

Greenery painted on every corner,

The roses glistening in the sunlight.

A florist admiring the beauty of each flower,

Baskets filled to the brim an unusual plight.

A canvas littered with a rainbow of thoughts,

Brush muddied with sorrow.

The art that was previously sought,

The artist tethered to tomorrow.

The florist, known for its bouquets,

The flowers, known for their fragrance.

The art, leaving viewers in a daze,

The artist, eternally patient.

What if I were to tell you the art,

So beloved and forever cherished,

The flowers, bought to heal a heart,

Were made by those who never perished?

Every art made for the muse,

Every flower bought for her.

Another canvas, another bouquet rued,

Another day spent in a blur.

Yellow leaves cover the plants,

Dried paint covers the chair.

Tangled in the audience’s daunts,

We never observed the strange affair.

Flowers wilting left unsold,

The lover's heart now cold.

Paintings fading stories untold,

The muse was the art, the flowers we behold.