I love finding old poems.

Sitting high in another world,
Safe behind the smoky glass,
I stare and watch in wonder
As a parade begins to pass.
The marching band blares loudly;
Dancers spin and twirl and leap.
Admirers fall in adoration –
They worship at your feet.

And I watch behind the glass
As they obey your every whim,
Like a powerless machine
Controlled by an intrinsic force within.
Mesmerized, the populace
Sings praises to your greatness
As, masked, you lead them far away
With your cowardly “charms” and “graces.”

I see them crawl on blindly.
You’re inflated by their love,
But their love is really empty:
They’re only sheep stuck in your herd.
Deep down, I think you know this,
That none of this is real,
But desperate to be a hero,
You like how valued they make you feel.

As I watch from high behind the glass,
The parade begins to part:
The people’s souls begin to rise –
Just their ghosts maintain the march.
Shadowy hosts of former selves
Still follow, going along,
But so absorbed by your silver baton,
You don’t see the people are gone.

There’s nothing left but traces
Of the people they used to be.
Blindsided, now the poisonous wave
Of your baton is all they see.
Still, to be followed around by ghosts
Is enough for you to sustain
Your detached façade of arrogance
That enshrouds your human pain.

From behind the glass, I can resist the lure
Of your silver baton, your golden charm;
Yet I cannot but pity you –
You can’t see what you’ve become:
That in spite of thinking that you are loved,
Your followers are soulless drones.
If the wind of reason should blow them away,
You’d see the truth: you are alone.