When we speak of that which supports the proverbial columns of pathology.
I wonder why you hold yourself in such high esteem
The bag of tricks you hold so dear appears to be nothing more than a few slight of hand parlor gimmicks and Cracker Jack box gifts for onsite lifts to distraction
At times I think you employ yourself to work as your own personal concierge
To wait on your glacial ego hand and foot
and play back commentary so you can hear the dulcet tones of your own arrogance
Dogma becomes you
Red hot with hypocrisy and porous like pumice stone
Made twice as abrasive
Why must it be so?
When you lift yourself above your own ground level
and entice others to buy into your mindscape of undulating untruths
and the constructs of corporal conceit
For me
The casual observer
You have bathed yourself in the rancid fish oil of self
Danced naked in the mid day Sun of stupidity and allowed the stench to fester
and reach new
Previously undiscovered heights
The reaction from others you have predictably misread as applause
When the truth is to a degree and from some it indeed is
However it is woefully the blind often lead the deaf and dumb
I call out but you will not listen
You listen,
but only to the droning sound of sea shell waves crashing
and the empty praise of false critics
I call out but you cannot hear me
Because although blind, you are Marred by the adopted faults of your
asinine constituency
Copyright ©2010 by j. k. Bradford, All Rights Reserved
The bag of tricks you hold so dear appears to be nothing more than a few slight of hand parlor gimmicks and Cracker Jack box gifts for onsite lifts to distraction
At times I think you employ yourself to work as your own personal concierge
To wait on your glacial ego hand and foot
and play back commentary so you can hear the dulcet tones of your own arrogance
Dogma becomes you
Red hot with hypocrisy and porous like pumice stone
Made twice as abrasive
Why must it be so?
When you lift yourself above your own ground level
and entice others to buy into your mindscape of undulating untruths
and the constructs of corporal conceit
For me
The casual observer
You have bathed yourself in the rancid fish oil of self
Danced naked in the mid day Sun of stupidity and allowed the stench to fester
and reach new
Previously undiscovered heights
The reaction from others you have predictably misread as applause
When the truth is to a degree and from some it indeed is
However it is woefully the blind often lead the deaf and dumb
I call out but you will not listen
You listen,
but only to the droning sound of sea shell waves crashing
and the empty praise of false critics
I call out but you cannot hear me
Because although blind, you are Marred by the adopted faults of your
asinine constituency
Copyright ©2010 by j. k. Bradford, All Rights Reserved
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