Sitting as I’m reclined to sit, to watch the sages of my age
Rivet us with tales of worry ’bout the happenings of the day.
The scorn rises from the cynics lips; lisping laments for the lame.
The jester gestures at the festive scene of stalwarts’ silly seriousness.
While the content point to the sky on high, to avoid the pits below;
The discontent comfort in the pits beneath, to not be burdened by too much sunny hope.
And I sit, still inclined to recline, afar from these treats, and tricks, and qualms, and psalms,
Hearing these sages happily sing sorrowful splendors, soaring through a splintered sky.
“This age is lost, and masses stupid!” shouts the cynic from his stool.
The jester shrieks, “Oh, what fun it is to mock so cruel, and play the fool that beats the fools!”
“But hope is near, no need to fear!” come the voices from a happy few.
“I’ll hear no more, your hope I scorn!” snub back the hopeless legion, shrill and lewd.
And I sit, inclined to try and define, whilst still seated reclined,
How to approach the voices bestowing wisdom onto me.
How to understand these people eager to define the world for me.
What views to hold; what views to scold.
Which to mock…flock to…and which to block.
Only wanting to understand whose banner I am most inclined to stand under.