Muse

It appears that even in his absence, my muse remains to haunt me. How similar the sensation, champagne to drown woes and vomit rising to parched lips. The sting lingers long after its departure, tingling and singing a tune of reflection. Inside two shallow glasses, wide eyes line across the shadows, seeking a break into the hallowed light.  Suffered is the asphyxiation that burrows its way into the stoic face of the wax man. Sulky shoulders pinned upon rosy wallpaper and sunken cheeks pulled apart to feign a smile. The pantomime of a gracefully stoic mind, brilliance offered only in sculpture. Behind the wax pallets, skin is putrid and human. To expose the raw bits and exhume from that veil only the weakness kept so deep within.