Insults shot deadpan,
Dry quips they spoke:
The joke
Was lost on us.
Deaf to the subtext
So we're the punchline--
That’s our yoke:
Dream worshipers.
Ashamed of what you cherish,
Frightened by sincerity,
So agree
To not speak up,
Or be ripped by well dress cowards
Accessorized with irony:
Dream worshippers.
Maybe you’re wondering
If you’re wrong to give a damn.
Maybe you learned how foolish you are,
But still say “I defined what I am."
The timid shield where they're injured
With jaded, bitter prose.
So goes
The century.
But guarded ideology
Ain’t a part of what you chose:
Dream worshipers.
Maybe he found something
That can’t repeat on plasma screens.
Maybe she was branded a pariah
For the vice of saying what she means.
Maybe we’re naive children
Hellbent on more than ourselves.
Maybe we’ll pay for our visions
Once we chase a vision where it delves.