The People.

They are a sick and twisted conglomeration
Of borderline incestuous imbeciles
That relies on the subsistence provided by
The derivative juices of their
Tasteless minds and base comprehension of reality.
They spin a web that connects one to the other
In an endless labyrinthine pattern of convoluted dependency.
Dragged by the momentum from their trajectories,
they end in pit of their own desolation.
And I look in from the outside
With the view that only Dr. T.J Eckleburg is endowed
Feeling a great sense of superpower
In the form of all omni’s
Or maybe yet I’m disillusioned and am no better
Than the structures of adipose and fashioned calcium
That I’ve grown so critical of.
It’s easy to forge a path of self-righteousness
While under the impression that
Ones mind has surpassed the great ones,
Worked beyond what man has had the capacity to think
The internal ruminations that I am the single master
Of the world’s mysteries and intentions
And maybe then the mirage flickers,
The letters metamorphose to reveal
The underlying hieroglyphs that show that They
Is more closely synonymous to I than we think.
Leaving us with this fleeting sense
That we are no more than the dust under our feet.
How quickly we forget then this parable
Because we are afraid to accept the ludicrous
Wanting to patch and stitch our broken sense of purpose
With a sense of urgency and insanity.
So we smother ourselves in the salve of self-creationism
And it seeps into our cerebral cortex,
Working it’s magic to wash the growing Polaroid.
We realign ourselves with spines still curved,
Futilely trying to salvage what
We never even had in the first place.