Poetry

Figure Eight

Written by Jacob Ibrag

They walked around the exhibition, aimlessly.

It was mostly artists and writers. Still a decent amount

of the masses showed up, unexpected. What were they all

thinking about it? What did they see with those untrained

eyes? Untrained. Oblivious. And those artists and writers?

All smug, crossing their arms. Just look at those faces, full

of vague expression. Not one makes a sound, emptier than

a waiting room. Is it the fear of being close to the maker of

these creations? Judgment is the game. It’s the currency.

All of them inflated, reaching for their galaxies. That’s it,

type. Tweet. Dissect and reject. Except you can’t. The

maker is juxtaposed to this chaos of you. Eye watch

it all. Control. Copy. I. We. Figure eight.


Artist Unknown

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