They are the wise
They who sit in trees
And discuss the daily happenings of their fellow comrades
They who shed their homes like winter coats
And disguise themselves as birds
Observing the fields and meadows
Speaking of their mother in high regard
As they turn their noses up at the others
They who question the sanity of the world
And pick apart each work of man
Or anything that has touched their hands
Or their purified bodies
They who shout and shriek at those with nicer rags
While they make mental notes as to rip apart their belongings
They are the wise

I am a fool
I am the concrete foundation of a dilapidated building
I am the dirt that crunches under your feet like autumn leaves
When you step up on the main road to hail a cab
I am the nose on the glass of a department store window
One who spends the day touching tangible matter
And winds up with the night meaning close to nothing
I am the flickering lights in an office cubicle
Going on and off to the beat of a dying daydream
I am the voice who is hollering through the red lights
Confusion setting in as a catalyst to a never ending nightmare
Providing silver slivers of comfort to those stuck running in circles
And to those weeping for the sanctuary of their beings
As bombs are being dropped on their brethren in the distance
We are interrogated by the wise
For being a part of the materialistic cataclysm
With our platinum walls and our glass coffee tables
Singing to the tune of the CEO’s gold pockets
Wiping the sanctity of human interaction away
Into an oblivion of technological advancements
Which are produced with aching hands
In far off lands with people screaming at their lost demands and
The bombs being dropped on their brethren

We say no
While the wise cower in their tall fields of wheat
And run naked through their meadows with the sun shining on their backs
While they bathe under the waterfalls and point fingers at everyone who has ever owned a cell phone
We sit in the middle of crowded, chrome, contradictions that keep everyone else at a distance
While somehow still creating a chaotic sort of unity
To stand under the lights radiating off of shining high rises
To walk with the shadows of anonymity trailing slowly behind us
Into a silent resistance that moves more than mountains that the wise so fondly speak of

For our foolishness is our greatest strength
Martyrs are born, not made