Emerald fires flash from sullen eyes, radiating
The malign judgement of mediocrities;
The lost sheep, whose minds are rooted
In the shallow soil of a tainted past.
Automatons, never daring to unleash
The lightning bolt of imagination.
Their dreams are monochrome. Their thoughts
Do not sparkle. They have never searched
For the end of the rainbow or sailed the Sargasso Sea.
The wastelands of banality and conformity are their home.
Atlantis never existed.
Troy is a fable.
The sandman, just a character in a children’s story;
And the yellow brick road is a highway in Kansas.
They are content to smile sweetly at the chosen ones,
Daggers poised in their hidden pockets of resentment.
Devoid of originality, the barren men can only
Spit green venom at the feet of heroes.
