Philistine

I've always thought poetry was an inherently selfish endeavor. ...So here's the poem.

We were never meant to know this much,

We lament into the winds of a widespread world we have 

Expanded with our own hands.

That our tribe must reside no further than our hearth,

To ensure its fire will not sputter out by 

Concrete slung by 

Daybreak by 

Malicious hands.

Faultless philistines and entrenched intellects,

Weary-eyed,

See minute differences in shades of grey.

All would sooner be blinded.

Painlessly, of course.

The renaissance of nuance,

Tasting smeared chemicals with singed tongues

Off blasted pavement that rings with

Dead voices off bruised-corpse bells,

Nothing more than bells,

Is retold around the hearth as an act of heroism,

And the poet is soothed,

And the fire never goes out.