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A recorded reading of “The Weeping Muse”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Her face, carved from moonlit stone, bears the weight of forgotten songs. Tears fall not as water, but as molten hues— violet grief, crimson ache— dripping down her marble skin, etching sorrow into timeless truth. Flowers cling to her in silence, petals heavy with stories unsaid. Roses bloom from her chest, a heart encased in thorns, their beauty both fragile and fierce, born of pain that does not fade. Her eyes remain sealed— not blind, but weary, unwilling to see the fractures she holds. In the shadowed hollows of her gaze rests the weight of all she’s lost, of what cannot be restored. Once, she stood in radiance, a muse to dreamers and untamed verses. Now, her light has waned, bled away in every unshed cry, every word swallowed in silence. Still, she endures, a statue of aching colour, a monument to beauty’s cost. Her tears carve the final truth: all creation is born of breaking, and in the fracture, something lingers.
Lyrics
Her face, carved from moonlit stone, Bears the weight of forgotten songs… Tears fall not as water, But as molten hues— Violet grief, crimson ache— Dripping down her marble skin, Etching sorrow into timeless truth. Still, she endures, A statue of aching colour. Her tears carve the final truth: All creation is born of breaking. Flowers cling to her in silence, Petals heavy with stories unsaid. Roses bloom from her chest, A heart encased in thorns. Once, she stood in radiance, A muse to dreamers and untamed verses. Now, her light has waned, Bled away in every unshed cry. Still, she endures, A statue of aching colour. Her tears carve the final truth: All creation is born of breaking. And in the fracture… something lingers.
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