My muse sits in a shadowy corner
Filled with dust streaming down
A cold, gray beam from the window.
One leg is drawn up to her bosom,
And her tea-colored eyes stare blankly out a gray window.
She has no expression.
She is just as blank and gone as I am.

In her head are shadows.
On her tongue are words
Written in rushed handwritting.
Her eyes see a gray world With dogs catching discs,
People walking to nowhere,
And nighttime skylines
Filled with fireflies clinging to brick and glass.

I watch her expectantly,
But she says nothing.
She never moves, save to blink.
To miss a macabre moment
Of death by supernova.

I copy her.
I blink.
She looks at me.
I blink.
She's gone.