The Artist wandered further
for whispers carry their weight in stone,
his eyes worn following the Moon
for in his deserted Atelier, spiders spatt
cobwebs and threadbare floors empty.
Gone was the  idyllic image of the cherry blossom
that daintly settled on the ground
for now it collects over a canopy
where rogue cheeked maidens
gander .
And the memory of Muriel, his muse
who danced foolishly into the fire, returns.
Wherewithal can we ever measure the true value
For she was not guarded,
stubborn even, against those denizens
the way of the World being evil
and the remnant of the Flemish cloth she wore
laid out alongside the stone wall.
The flicker of innocence ruptured
A brush stroke never  rendered.