By E Swathi
With a devious smirk, they ask who's the muse anyway,
They want black or white, so I end up answering in grey.
Just enough lies to keep you safely hidden,
Just enough truth to keep me hopelessly smitten.
Call it circumstances, call it cowardice or call it fate,
The love that should be proclaimed from the roof tops became the one who can't be named.
So I paint a picture of grey to ease their eyes,
Cause too white I'd be blinded and too black there would be gasps and sighs.
And I keep my muse tucked in, in between these lines,
So far, deep down, even they couldn't find themselves in their shrines.
But, blur the picture long enough and you forget what you have seen,
And I am starting to wonder too where my muse ends and where you begin.
That's fine by me, for maybe then I'll forget you in all that disguise,
And maybe then it wouldn't hurt me, when they ask me about the muse for a story that never was.