You think you're free
on that lonely stage
you see no hands driving you
no wooden sticks propping you up
no light spilling in
and spinning you out of shadows

and you weave in a dance
with steps you thought you made
but don't see other platforms
where their steps are just the same.
you think you hear the voice of inspiration
but it is only the madness of fate
you believe you'll leave the legacy
of a greatness you thought to create.

But you are blinded by the lights,
the glitter and the sparks
and you don't see the entirety
of the farce in which you take part
you don't see you are but one of millions
who march the same desperate pace
each one of you as nameless
each thinking you've won the race.

Yet you are all but dreamers only
with your eyes closed and your heads high
thinking you are kings.
You are the audience and the performers
and you pull each other's strings.

The Poem that Started It All. (Don't Ask.)