Dear good friend,
Perhaps acquaintance.
To the masses we pass on a daily basis,
The worn out souls and weary faces
Painted in towers of glass.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
Distinguished guests.
To those indisposed
By inexorable quests.
To the ones that were left
To search for what was right
Till there was nothing left
But memories of light

Blindfolds applied at night.

To the torn shoes,
Blistered feet.
The poverty we choose to greet.
It is pain, vain,
Somewhat plain to mention
That conversation's become outdated.
Sedated, restrained and correlated
To the denizens of a distant past.

We pass the world in silence.
Ignoring blatant acts of violence

Then claim that it is art.