More Like This
An observer beyond the thick glass of my eyeballs,
I see the world around,
zooming towards me and beyond,
dodging me in its myriads of ways,
and standing here as one of the many,
with my mouth closed and teeth clenched,
the men tumbling over each other in the pursuit of success of their icons,
as symbolic and mighty to them as once were stained glass windows.
I see this age’s saints,
elevated by the mass of lackeys and contenders and dreamers,
put above the world,
towering as giants,
sure of their height.
I ask myself if they know they are able to fall.
And then, I ask if they really are.
Who would touch the titans of this age?
Would it be the young, who exchanged the tit for a phone,
book for a toy,
a minute of silent contemplation for ear-piercing shriek of music that penetrates their minds,
a thought for an image
an idea for a vain void?
Should we try to topple those icons,
being driven with our own envy and greed