Woe To The Golden Calf (Vent Poetry)I pushed her away, or so I tried.Blocked out, pushed far, where she should hide.Yet everywhere I turn, she lies,Like an ever-present parasite, unconfined. This Golden Calf, they kowtow and pray,Her artwork and words are the truth, they blindly say.They lift her high, like a shining lie,And turn to me, with expectant eye. "Join us," their sheep gazes plead,"Worship our prophet, help sow her seed.""Bow down to our queen," they say, as I cringe,They're just her little puppets in her venomous fringe. What holy grace does she possess?Just a showoff artist, a high and mighty mess,Her art and words, apparently something grand,But I see the flaws, and no one understands. They rave about her hypocritical painted lines,Her "lovely" drawings, her "grand" designs.But I just see an insignificant hand,Deceitful paints and pencils from where I stand. She's not special, not even a bit good,Her annoying pictures just fill me with a bad mood.Just lines and colors, flaccid and thin,Baseless sculptures, a boring spin. I'm tired of her, in every way.I just wish that she would go away.Fall from prominence, like a wave's crash,Reduced to dust, like crumbled ash. Oh, what a joy that would impart!A freedom for this spiteful heart.I'd buy cake and ice cream, colors so bright,To celebrate her downfall through the night. A sweet feast, a joyous release,That thought alone will be my endless peace,A cruel thought, yes, I know it's true,But, everything about her, I am through.giftrophy