There is always a song to be sung
and I surround the one on the stage
crowding him, reminding him
to sing, to dance, to pretend...
There is always a road
not crossed by anyone:
speeding trucks, weaving cars
blocking the golden fortunes
that are only found on the other side.
I like the fearful,
the devotees...
I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile,
as they beg the Lord: for forgiveness,
for inspiration for clemency;
if he listens, if he cares,
if he inspires,
itʼs well beyond my care.
Clemency he has none to give,
for I am, forever inspiring and certain.
There is always a thing or two
that one can daily do to forget;
and as they do, religiously,
time takes them by the hand
and delivers them all to me.
The soulful,
I take away
in majestic strides,
as the courageous
I sit beside,
as they drive their cars
hundreds of miles an hour
over a cliff, against a tree.
The uninspired
I arrive late to collect,
in their forever muted state
they go peacefully,
in their sleep.
There will be people there,
crying.
I come, collect them and move on.
As I walk away with them
I see a building,
an unfinished fence, a nice garden
that reminds me of someone.
Step by step, in my lead shoes,
I tip toe on the others:
the passionate,
the inspired,
as they put the final touches
on their latest creations,
as they begin their opus.
We walk away together
and I hear their passionate tales
of their unfinished masterpieces:
a beautiful painting,
a beautiful score,
a perfect quilt,
the first typed pages
of a new novel
that would inspire millions.
A late afternoon,
an early morning stroll,
is always better
accompanied by someone
whose time has run out.
I watch them
passionately describing
how grandiose it would have been:
they are still focused,
strangely connected,
eternally unaware,
forever dreaming,
and I am the one destined
to exist only in their stories,
and the wondrous promises held
in their unfinished work.
On rare occasions,
I read over their shoulders
and find absolute beauty,
and I wait, teary eyed,
ignoring the clock,
until the lead marks the paper
one final time,
one final note:
the end.
They see me
and acquiesce;
I take them away
into the night
quietly,
I know I should feel betrayed
but genius is rare indeed
and mediocrity makes me forgotten.
