to each their own

all those in wait, patient with legs
folded and hands crossed, sit in lines,
rows and rows of simultaneous speeches,
mouths moving without sound. but only
one out of every four men or women,
their dogs and cats left behind, pushed
aside into the sewer streets, are called
forward to the stage, chosen for their
bright eyes, or how their elbows bend.
address the crowd, all sorrow and song
to the applause, and they begin to
levitate, flying out above the forgotten,
the masses unrecognizable, the audience
of leftovers reaching up, eyes blank and
white, teeth gleaming. begins to rain
cherry pits and mint leaves, which bounce
like heavy hailstones, which sting like
wasps and bees. and they pray, a hum
of noise growing louder with each pass
overhead of the new gods and goddesses.
this is their new religion, the church of
surrealism, painting clocks in the dark.

a.n: written for the monthy writing contest via the review game. this month's prompt was, ""for many are called, but few are chosen."" feel free to vote in the poll beginning the 8th. and yes, i know this is weird.