My muse died
yesterday
We were in a deep conversation
and suddenly she died
She was manipulative
She made me cough up
whatever she wanted
She was sitting on
a volcano
waiting to erupt
Almost pretending to be unaware
She was living in the moment
She was courageous
She walked with me
all the distance
Promised me
that she would never go back
while I doubted every moment
She was living with hope
She was villainous
She loved throwing me into deep murky waters
She would pull me up
Only to throw me into something else
She believed in experience
She is gone for good now
and I shall celebrate
for there is no one
to mold me anymore
She haunts me now
all the time
But probably it is not her
Probably it is me
Free that I am
I shall create
my own muse
But I don't know how to cook
The only recipe book I have
Is the one she gave me
I choose the ingredients
one from each recipe
Careful not to end up with anything from the book
While I make make a concoction
She has the last laugh