What's all the commotion?
You got a promotion
to the upper echelons
in the pantheon
Rising above the rest
and beating upon your wounded chest
you are beautiful, like Icarus before the fall.
Strangely constructed lies keep you wise
as you adamantly keep your eyes on the prize,
the golden fleece that a foolish Jason bled for.
The cogs are turning
while you are burning
for the right time to
drop the right line to
set you free and let you just be.
You drink naive while others take their leave,
and, as you contract the disease, there are
newbies crying over and over again, "please?"