The rough concrete wall fights the artistic impression

that the creative works to instill onto its surface.

The chalk dust coats his hands,

and the effort to hold the crumbling chalk pieces

creates a frustration that builds slowly in his chest.

The sun, long since settled below the hazy horizon of the city,

emits no lingering light, no comforting rays of solace offered.

The dark alley he works in gathers threatening shadows as he labors,

his need to create overwhelms his vision,

the growing darkness foretells impending failure and blocked release.


A blend of angelic, and demonic the inspiration evades completion of the artwork.

The artist, in a frenzy of passion turns, eyes raised to the heavens,

appealing his muse from the depths of his soul.

His anguish a palpable thing that emanates from his body.

Pleading for her mercy, and for release of his creative block,

he exposes his soul, and his humanity

in a divine sacrifice for his art.

The silence is deafening.

There is no answer, no guidance,

the city’s heartbeat continues to pulse around him,

its sounds, a circulatory system that never stops,

engulfing mankind in its maw.

Frustrated, he walks away, to ponder the direction of his work,

he needs to sleep on it, and to dream,

possibly, to find a new direction for his passions.

Shaking his head, the city’s dank smell permeating his senses,

he shakes off his anger, and gathers his belongings.

It is a finished thing here.


The eyes are familiar. Can you see the resemblance?

Look deep, until you see the pure soul that also shared the body of a stag.

The beast that crossed Lyssa’s previous path, on the crossroads,

as it fled the clutches of the Hunter.

What is he to Lyssa, or more importantly,

what is she to him?

A soul mate, perhaps?

His appeals to the muse have gone unanswered previously,

until she appeared in the dream world,

a delicate image of innocence to this plane of existence.

Passion, talent, and desire alone

were not enough to lead him to finish anticipated masterpieces,

but now, she is here, his muse,

and she is hunted by others.

He is yet another dreamer,

exploring the dreamscape that is the clockwork of our subconscious desires.

The imagined feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips

is a dream that drives him to hope that their paths will soon cross,

and that she will choose to be with him, and not run, afraid.

Even though his soul is pure, he is not above dark passion and desire.

And his attention is now focused on his muse,

and Lyssa, even though she is blind to her identity as his muse,

she feels the tension that comes from his focus, and is drawn by his distraction.



Will the dreamers find each other,

remember- he is mortal, too,

or better yet,

will they find their salvation?


Dreams are funny things.

Be careful what you ask for.

And, of course, do not forget,

there is always the Hunter.



I always love a little sexual tension! This dream world is starting to heat up. HHhhmmm, wonder what the Hunter thinks. It might start to get a little personal. And, what about Lyssa, she is sweet, but really, she is not naive. I love this world! The model was shot in my studio, and the wall,chalk, and illustrations were added in.

I hope that your dreams are heating up, too!

Mary Michelle



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