FANATICS

New Paragraph

The plastic floor engineered to look like wood creaks.

It's corners roll and I can see that nothing can sit on its surface.

I struggle to find balance and

search for a window,

faced with mirrors that amplify my reflection.

Images that don't look like me, all lies.

The artificial lights dim and change colour,

the shadows dance

and I can't tell what time it is.

Cameras face the aficionado

worshipping filters, adhering to every suggestion.

The fanatic chants 

me myself and I, yourself truly.

The congregation props flowers around their own necks

and bows to lit candles.

Staring deeply into their own eyes,

clinking poison-filled glasses of bubbly liquid 

counting bills, digital dollars, followers,

Likes.

Comments.

And at the pinnacle of this scene,

they reach a fit of ecstacy.

Screaming they don't believe in anything but themselves,

they shake their heads in a dance around their individual idols.