The End of Me – A poem

 
Inside the Red Fort at Agra, India
A good place for reflecting.
 
 
The End of Me
 
Arms folded,
wrinkled chin,
I watch the world
bump and spin.
 
If only they'd listen . . .
except they don't.
They won't.
 
Smug, safe
in a careful paradigm,
I tune out opinions
that threaten mine.
 
In an echo chamber
my of my own ideas
I beam
when I'm validated.
 
Could it be
I've begun
to worship myself?
 
. . . . . .
 
Maybe the end of me
is the beginning of us?
 
 
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