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