ASK NOT FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

Elusive Muses
Wandering, gypsy souls
Today one was
Forever lost

The deed will not go unpunished
THERE WILL BE
Death in the Afternoon

Silent sighs
Silent hearts
Muses in hands
Not daring to let go
Worried,
Scurrying feet

Lips tightly sealed
Not daring to ask
For Whom the Bell Tolls….
We might not like the answer

But
Need to see
Need to peek
Who paid the price
For losing his Muse

Once again I sit
On this rich velvety chair
Reserved just for me
In a theatre filled with the stench of death
On each and every Afternoon.
By now I know every poet , writer and artist
Dead or alive
Each one of us having to once in a while
Check the Lost and Found
Though I grow tired of this daily event
And have secretly searched
For Hemingway’s Exit
(I yearn everyday for my house in the Key),
I am deeply honored
For every Ancient One
Acknowledges my presence
They know my name

The curtain slowly rises
We will once again watch
The Old Story
The Play
The Comedy
The Romantic Satire
And the Tragedy
Start to unfold
We all know the ending
A head will start to roll
But who’s?
We dare not ask

There is something different
In the atmosphere this Afternoon
The stench of fear and death
Is stronger
The air is too dense
Nausea and vertigo
Threatens to take over
From a distance
William cries
“Parting is such sweet sorrow”.
I seem to drown
In a menacing flood of ravens
Poe has released
In his search for his Annabelle’s
Burial ground
Cervantes has me riding all over the stage on
Don Quixote’s horse
As my Tale of Two Cities
Of too many Great Expectations
Is written before me

I am the puppet
The court jester
The fool

Ghost of Euripides
Master of ceremony
Lifeless eyes start to accuse me
This time it is I
That floats
After the bloody trail he leaves
Of Jason, Medea and
The innocent children.
“Have you no pity
Have you no mercy?”
I scream in my ire
I follow the Messenger
That I can not kill
The stage looks much smaller
Feels so much tighter from where I now stand
Filled with too many ghosts
And a guillotine.

Another afternoon
Another poet has been born
My empty rich velvety chair is not vacant anymore.

ASK NOT FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

Arco Iris  R

Joined May 2009

Artist's Description

I feel that every artist, poet and writer has the eternal fear of forever losing his Muse. They are the sinews we thrive on; the reason we exist. I always wondered if mine was a blessing or a curse for it had many mood swings. Sometimes it was tireless, insomniatic, manic and other times heavy with clouds of despair and depression. How many times have I toyed with Hemingway’s exit. I speak of my Muse in the past tense for, like me, it is tired and I don’t know if it will ever have the spunk that it had once before. Maybe it is just that, I am tired.

I greatly respect the Ancient Ones just as well as my fellow friends (poets, writers and artists)in RB.

Artwork Comments

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