Rows of Tops
We shout at those who can hear, but whisper in the direction of the deaf. we are oracles and truth seers, but we don’t get up from our desks. we don’t want to follow where anyone goes. we are oceans of islands with no shore. we shoot up into trees at eagles and crows, but can’t see through the branches anymore. we forget our friends, even more – our foes, but we type until our fingers are sore. we maim our face, to spite our nose, and stop working when it makes us sore. we try to topple columns by forming rows, and yell in ways so easy to ignore. we’re revolutionary, but just spinning