Her Muse

Lost in the echoes of the past
Her tears fall freely, like a rose petal falling from grace.
The night has come with mercy, mask removed,
the beautiful moon shines upon her agony.
Her muse awakens, and like moths to flames
Words are drawn to her pain and began to form,
The verses kissing her wounds ever so sweetly
Caressing her creativity
The pen and paper cries out from the burning of her passion.

Micheline Jean Louis

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