kill the muse
by David Bowles



how lovely
to be one of the artless mass
awash in music and art and
film and print
transported
blissful
before the voice and
spectacle of the universe.

but those who feel
the unseen fingers
jerk
their marionette cords
to fumbling life
those who hear the
faint
whisper
of creative daimons
can such ever
just enjoy?

the majesty wrought
by masters is vast and
bittersweet
lesser works
darkle
in those shadows
and bliss curdles
into the incurable
ill of
yearning.

gods bid us
speak
but who will hear
as we shout
against
the swelling cacophonic
tide of the famous
whom we
love and despise?

better to kill the
muse, to
savage the twists
in the brain that
permit such bootless
creation
and somehow
forget
the fleeting touch
of forever.





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