There are those in this world

Who act like ivory statues

Crafted by great men

Of an ancient, noble empire.


They look in the mirror

And see beaming faces of ivory

As they stand affixed,

Immovable upon their pedestal.


Higher, so high above the Earth

They look down upon the world

Seeking ownership of its wonder

Grimacing, judging, doubting.


The great statues claim purity,

Divinity as they live amidst the clouds,

Never realizing that their tall pillars

Were man-made, pulled from the very ground.


They never stop to think

That they, the individual were man-made

That they too were born

Out of blood and sperm.


They too were one of millions

They too were crafted delicately

In the primordial chamber

Of the womb.


They claim purity, ascension

Evolution beyond the needs

Of the flesh, desperate and depraved

Spurning nature herself.


Yet as they hide among the clouds

We know of the stains upon their ivory faces

We know that filth flies even so high

So why then must we pretend?


From mud, we sprout.

To dust, we return to rest.

No matter how high the tower,

You will plummet back to earth.


You will be consumed by its filth.

The soil will reclaim you.

It will not resent, only reuse

And from the filth yet more will sprout.


Despite all arrogant words,

Despite all fanciful words,

We are crafted from clay,

We are made of dirty, Earthly things.


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