The Muse

The artist scrunched his brow,
As he sat on his window sill.
The sky was lit, the moon hung low,
The artist worried still.

He thought of his last stroke,
Of the maiden in the sea blue.
His reverie then broke,
As his impatience grew.

He needed a new muse,
Of that he was sure.
A craving to watch colours infuse,
To answer the canvas' lure.

He stared out the window,
Fingers tapping a rhythm broken.
Across from him was a sudden glow,
And the softest word spoken.

Those beautiful eyes; he knew,
He'd just found his new muse.
He gathered his pencils few,
Nothing could stop him, no ruse.

Magic began at his hands,
Not pausing until the last line.
His search for a muse I understand,
Because he just was mine.