You were written
not as the
poet,
nor were the
muse but
as a bystander,
a lesser to none
important
character
who was
delusionally
in love
with the
protagonist.

You knew that
from the
start and
still, you
hover close
like a moth
in an oil
lamp,
or when Icarus
foolishly
flew too
close to the
sun.

But how
would you
not to?
The heart, the
mind---the
human psyche
truly is
confusing as
is fascinating.


© Coated_Peanuts