The world was her muse
there to inspire the works
which came from her workshop every creation a masterpiece
but never as beautiful
nor grand
as the muse
which helped to move
her hand
Every piece of beauty
brought delight to
one who set bright eyes upon it as she displayed her works
She never spoke
not a word
to seer
nor to thinker
but sat with hands
calloused and worn
laid on the lap
of dirty cloth
ragged and torn
She sits
eyes closed
and dreams
of her beautiful muse
and of prettier things
just as those in her work
Prettier things
more so than
the crowd of downtrodden folk all looking around
As they gaze at her work
with tired eyes
and quiet whispers
she sits
she dreams
waiting for everything
to look pretty again
©avian
A