The fantasy

Cannot last

At some point

The muse

Is no longer

A goddess

Born of memory and supremacy

She is merely

Mortal

And while this is simply a disappointment for you

Imagine what it is for her

She knew it all along

And, like Cassandra,

Could foresee the fall…

Yet this premonition is always denied

And the pain of standing up

After that fall

Broken and dismantled

Picking up her pieces

While you watch, indifferent

Because

She cannot live up to the dream

The expectations

The fantasy

And she knows it all along.

She knows when it happens

She’s the one who is displaced

Out of order

And alone

She is such a disappointment

And she cannot put herself back up there

Because it was not she who put her up there to begin with…

What if,

Instead of placing her on the pedestal

You let her walk on solid ground?

You let her face you

Look you in the eye

A little smaller than you

Your lips easily kissing her forehead

Rather than her feet

Would her radiance

Be diminished then?

Or could it be that her glow from within

Would burn the brighter

And warmer

Because its closer to you

It’s tangible and reachable

It’s real

Would she be real to you then?

And would that be better?

So that,

From time to time,

If she stumbles and falls,

The fall is not so far this time

And you,

Rather than being jolted out of the dream

Would be right there

And could help her back up.

She would still be right where she belongs.

And you’d be side by side

Or even facing each other

Your lips easily kissing her forehead

Rather than her feet.

Because isn’t real

The real dream?