They are
But staggering wreckage
Dwellers of the open world
As kneeling subjects,
To its sporadic cruelty

We are
But a shape-shifting spectacle
Come to bloom for the eyes of our own
Garbed in excess
And slathered, in its bright, beaming mayhem

They are
But wandering misery
Tried by winds of contempt
And sheets of falling disdain

We are
But the weary privileged
Rotund
And marred with quiet apathy

They are
But the tired many
Huddled
Beneath a worn and tattered illusion