Martyrs

And though
I stand in a spot light
standing before a brick wall
a classic comedy club scene

I stand in bathrooms
after
with mirrors,
bath tubs,
sinks,
and toilets
admiring the clump of lint
resting in the porcelain corner
wishing to be it

Simple
life should be

Not flying
flapping
it's grandiose
angel wings
blowing the horn
being
the scene

Simple
like standing tall
and proud
like oak,
sequoia,
or what ever
tree

But with three dimensions
with muscles
and bones
joints
fingers
gripping axes
and dust pans

A throat
bearing vocal chords
and a tongue
giving the hum
direction
making the superior sound
"I"

The eyes
analyzing
perceiving a gavel
and a pressing stamp
making judgements
and labeling
those who are still

What a sacrifice
it must be
to be lint
or a tree