The Name that was You.

It's ridiculous,
the way the world around you gets distorted
when you're confined to your bubble,
and your face is contorted
with pride and glee.
For every time you glance around, you see
the others, bobbing and heaving too,
but fortunately, never above you.

You see them paddling and wobbling precariously,
while you sail on, propagated by the whispered glory,
emanating from tongues that sought to galvanize you.
They took their umpteenth turns, trying to innoculate you -
A swift rise cannot be followed by a swifter end;
that you soar unassailed, on this they remain vehement.

But in your painted ignorance,
you close your eyes.
You awake to the shattering hum,
of the world passing you by.
A broken moment, no fight, no retaliation.
There's no pursuit, no innate determination.
You reach out and destroy the wet shroud encasing you.

Blinded by the brilliance of the stars that weren't there before,
you blaze down, for the first time you're seeing more,
than yourself, or the faces waiting below.
Shaking wooden heads, amongst the many, they lay you down.
And mark your grave with the Name that struck you down.