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They were thrown off to the wayside,
projected silhouettes of days gone by
laughing hysterically for what they knew
then grew old with reminiscing sighs.
Hands were held in unity
blood was shed for the brethren
reality became their children’s myths
with every passing memory.
Words were spoken politically
words were reinforced religiously
words were minced grudgingly
words die to whispers eventually.
The artist basks in his moment of history
captured in essence, an art himself.
soon to be an idolised rogue,
they all pass on to be part of tales.
Chaucerian are we all,
with a dime and a prayer on a
We are projected silhouettes
who fail to walk,
and forget to crawl.
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