We are simulacrum,

Of gods made of gold,

Stone faced, weather-beaten, mountain sentinels,

Looking down,

On seas of ordinary humanity.


We sit firm on marble pillars,

Coated in silver,

Shucked from their very bones.



Eluding their eyes, of the truth of us.


We are simulacrum of a middle aged generation,

That wishes for utopia,

And is beguiled,

Into worshiping at alters,

To us, silent gods of materialism and individualism.


Their souls lie scattered and forgotten.

We collect them,

Simulacrum of orphaned dreams,

In tainted glass jars,

To feed our darkest desires


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