Look friends, this is a only a lighted screen.
On which people paint their dreams.
Spill out their fears,
Perhaps cleanse their souls.
Words printed not in stone,
Gone with the strike of a key.
Meaningless to all,
But perhaps their own creator.
Never intended to live forever.
As if they were wispy clouds in the sky,
Shifting, changing and then goodbye.
Does the maker of those clouds care
Who sees them there, need comment
of awe and splendor, an adoring audience
from below to lavish him with praise?
My guess is he does not,
Like our thoughts on this screen,
impermanent and fleeting,
His are flights of artful heavenly whimsy,  
A clear endeavor of self expression,
Not meant to last.
Put up there on his canvas,
Merely for his own enjoyment.