Avant-garde Like shards of gleaming glass they stand, Eyes and brains glistening with ideation Every one thinking Platonically or Socratic. They fell to Earth, but quickly brushed Aside their disappointment. Though most were swept up in a maelstrom Of normalcy, a few remained. They sought the places that made Brains split and souls churn. They bathed in the dark palette of the night, Or drenched themselves in the Incalculably white coatings of the day. But they always hid. They were veiled in plain sight of Those casualties of the tempest. They reached out to the others, But were beaten back like lepers. They lamented the blunted Swords of human awareness. Swords that once pierced the thick haze Of the status quo could now barely provide a scratch. Such little specks of pulsing irregularity, They slid proudly around, avoiding The threat of being melted Into monochromatic goo. They were farmers, Sowing seeds on land long fallow. They rotated their harvests, Disseminating new works and inspirations. They were nomads, Hotly pursuing their quarry of knowledge As it leapt across continents And dressed in myriad disguises. They were gods, each an Atlas Upholding the shifting pillars of man’s knowledge. Yet this was all hidden, Cloaked in the buzzing noise of street side cafes And blotted out by white puffs of manmade fog, Issuing from men’s lips. They are still hidden today, Still leaping across continents Still harvesting ideas, Still pressing upward Against the staggering foundation of human ingenuity.
