by Kimberly Bare
The muse is silent.
She sits waiting in some quiet corner
softly draped in silk.
She eludes my eyes as I watch a scarlet flush creep across
her alabaster face.
With a russell of petticoats, she rises.
Turning toward the door, she beckons me.
I am helpless but to follow.
Beyond the door I find nothing but a mirror.
Was she only a reflection of myself?
Posted on 09/11/2003
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