• Like some extraordinary fairytale

    you enter left,

    an iridescent exception to the status quo.

    And you dazzle the moon in a spectrum of your own.

    Commanding great armies of subservient creatures

    with an elusive smile that promises gloom.

    They follow you without question.

    Blinded by your luster,

    Ripping through the throats of their peers

    for even a morsel of you.

    The media has them infatuated with your existence.

    It has them loving you more passionately than music or life or any form of comprehensive beauty.

    They have become stubborn.

    And now you are worried, for your well-being.

    How pertinent is the physical idol, when the idea can live forever without flaw?

    Through this question you find yourself in a state of disarray.

    You are loved and idolized by many, and yet when asked how many you’ve loved

    the answer is always, consistently, zero.