The Invisible

High on your chair, above the clouds
you do not see.
High in your throne, built of dust and bone
you do not see.
We, the invisible, crowding below
grasping the notes that float down
the heavens open slow
the process meets its end. 
Up there, you scribble over the paper
with your charcoal pen
letting each note fly 
tossing it like a scrap
and we, below, grab it from on high
we unwrinkle it, hold it up to show
and we pass it around, enjoyably
though we know you do not know.

Up above the foggy ocean
you do not see.
In your comfort lair, you do not share
you do not see.
Look down, should you,
over the vapor barrier 
peak through the clouds to
see what lies beneath
you, certain you hear voices
perhaps a thief
to catch your work
your endless, joyless work
your bloody, uncertain work
yet to look there,
to climb down from the throne,
and carefully over the edge you dare.

Now, under that veil 
you begin to see
With the ceiling above you now,
you begin to see
we with our great, long poles
reading and laughing
but scribbling our own
and sending them flying,
as if they’d find
some means to defying
but instead they bind
to the bottom of the sky
and you’ve seen the lie
We the invisible 
the masses, a
sea of individuals

We can never hope
to reach that throne
But we hold you up
with our poles,
we never let you topple
and now you see, with horror
whilst craning your neck, 
the wobbling tower,
on which you sit
built with the bodies
of dead artists.

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