What else is there to say?

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Rome

The Muse

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: 

speeding trucks, weaving cars 

leading to me.

I like the fearful, 

the devotees... 

I smile at 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 lovely garden 

that reminds me of someone. 

Step by step, in my feather 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 

and mediocrity makes me forgotten.

                                                    

The Reality of

israel 

FREE, FREE...

PALESTINE

U.S. Corrupted Politicians

Bought and paid for by AIPAC

▶️ 

israel : Killing Arabs Since 1948

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Shame upon EVERY JEWISH HOME.

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KIDNAPPED by the Terrorist State of israel