When We Turn To Little Things
Architects, we call ourselves, as we build
big bay windows to our minds
only to draw rich red velvet curtains across them
so peeking out we can deride passersby
for their ignorance of the splendors within

Designers, we call ourselves
as we blueprint and measure and trig our way
to another reflection in a city of mirrors

Sculptors, the title vainly clutched to our chest
as hammer and chisel carve out
the same crumbling letters to make
the same flaking words as everybody else

Clever, we decide at last
that we are alone to hide in the dark and pain
with our scars and despair

Clever, because if we ventured too far we would see
that so is everybody else

Clever, just like us