High Beams
reflect off of coffee, hardwood floors
glistening off the black staff, and
charcoal checkered boards
footsteps echo
bounce off walls
every head turns
music from metal strings, maple boxes,
and ivory plastic keys
begin to fill the room
then blend into a voice, a single
voice
Roars from the crowds ricochet
off the rafters
these are the praised,
praised for flaunting around
on stage,
which vibrates from
shouts of glorification
They're treated like
Gods,
idols,
Saints,
but they receive too much
they have no personal
lives
no shelter or shields
from bullets of propaganda
we give them too much worship
we idolize them
we overreact when they
don't live up to expectations
but they are
