Blind Faith

This is how the story always ends. They gave you wings and then asked you to stay on the ground. You catch yourself being vain as you spend longer searching for your reflection rather than framing what you see as art. The puckered purple skin performs a ritual of remembering. With pride I can recall each fall. Did it ever end? And what happens when you finally hit the floor? If contentment was consistent would we all just sit and stare? I could stare into my eyes for hours. Sometimes I do. And then I realize the walls have come a lot closer.  It used to take longer to walk to the edge and peer into apparent abyss. Now the abyss and I have consummated our union. Abysmal abyss egoless solipsists cylindrical thought permits me to stay self-contained-even though I am quite sure  at any moment I could burst into one million microscopic pieces and it would likely feel just the same.  You brought this onto yourself and so  you accept it. You asked for a calling and when yours came you laughed and said…ok. Fine. Let me blunder on as I always have and see if anyone else catches fire. But anyone else was always just me. It was always just me…can’t you see? Good. Because neither can I.