Marching with flaming pitchforks,
looking for what direction to go,
the easily swayed fickle flock
wherever the ex-burks say so.
Intellectualising to the death,
efforts by others that actually try,
glossy words and asterisks
obstruct talents in their strides.
The jaws of thoughtless clickers,
only wind up and talk once told
the long read, super scrolled
opinions verified to hold.
The police of artificial tastes
sit faceless behind their screens
deciding how many stars will shine
light on creative scenes.
All the while the closet typists
bold behind a keyboard’s taps
possess no attempts of their own,
and so mask over that fact
with long words pumped with fluffy
language that undermines to derail.
The binary smoke and mirrors
pose a question; who’s really failed?