by LJ Frank
Daughter of Thutmose I
did your lineage find way to the present,
stumbling through the velocity of time
for you were the Muse Architect of mixed blood
while the Greeks were perfecting their oral traditions
you were found one night writing on parchment –
as per one of your couriers remained quiet,
for you explored that which lies beyond the eyes
imagined things that caressed the motive of the soul,
that found its way in the nature of your buildings,
temples both physical and mindful to excite the will
while the theological blood ties had other ideas
but you were not to be erased from history
such was the splendor that is now admired,
monuments erected before religion was able to grasp
some dreams are an escape,
others seek the unfamiliar text of wonder,
you understood words were insufficient –
as if you had studied under a Buddhist Master
brought to Egypt from Asia –
so, you dressed the part of your position
but who really speaks for any person
the Bard takes note of the Body Politic,
sees things that no one else does,
those that followed in the shadows,
were unwise to dance on the flesh’s sorrow,
poison arrives in many forms –
for ignorance is revelation too late
and glibness is an unworthy companion
for intimacy requires a deep compassion,
while others stroke the false beard of the other
and winking becomes a private indulgence
what of the other side to the discolored lens
disenfranchised is found on ancient scrolls,
awareness asleep from too much wine
wisdom is a fickle mistress of men
adulation of the crowd is a naked ode –
when wealth and power are reason for existence
with limbs bound to the posts of the deceiver
and the skin aches with the soreness of a mistake
still, the Muse’s love is visibly expressed –
the poet to be uncovered in the Mortuary,
the imagination wonders about those words
the sound of a voice that affected so many –
missing verses written under evening candlelight.