The critics build their little forts,
preparing their beige, bland retorts
which, of course, they’ll use
to keep you neatly packaged
for shipping, easily managed.
They step back,
and as it should,
the scale makes them dizzy.
But then they forget to look closer,
where we find ourselves busy.
They forget that the world was built
for one simple, brave desire;
to tend our small, very human fires.
Aka our mission,
the whole damn composition,
split into manageable parts.
Why bother with golden schemes?
The world was built for one messy, brave,
and ridiculous dream.
Multiplied.
To stand in the shadow of the infinite night.
And be, for a moment,
absurdly bright.
