The writer and the muse

Fear had made a grave in her heart
For the past twenty years she’s been
sitting by this closed window

Hoping for the light to come in
Wearing a red dress she waits patiently
while holding a scarlet rose between her fingers

She watches the rose die and come to life
again and again
As every traveler that passes by opens the
window only to lock it again

The skin colored flowers on her dress perfectly matches her aura
The rawness of her beauty is enhanced by the sunlight
As she herself is made of sunsets, red roses and poetry

“Who am I?” her inner voice questions
Red riding hood or Goldilocks?
Nay, she’s a writers muse yet she’s unaware

Once again the shuts in her face and
she sits there in the shadows of despair

Watching the rose die she silently hopes and prays for the first time for someone
to leave it open

After a while she hears the neigh of a horse
“Another traveler passing by” she thinks

It’s the writer to whom she’s the muse
A writer lost in the darkness just like her

Shortly after the writers eyes fall on the hut
Abandoned in the middle of the forest
The thorny branches around the shutters
intrigues the writer to open the window

The muse looks up as light starts approaching once again

There eyes meet
“The constellations inside her eyes
enchant me, a universe of fatal red stars”
Screams the writers inner voice.