ACCLAIMED

Sanctimonious, their disdain they voice
with hateful quasi-superiority,
and tut-tutty tolerance.

And still she has her favourite milliner
fashion an outrageous purple creation
light enough for graceful nape.

Rattling out pop-poetry with awful regularity,
they proffer cosmic compassion
to those not as wise.

Her matching cape is woven from the pulp of
rejections made by a gifted Steampunk friend,
who can make the paper dance.

Masticating platitudes, ruminants
mouth repetitive sycophantic adulation -
grovelling on calloused knees,

hardened by years of tongue-buffing editors' boots, camouflaging dehumanizing pustules, dried
by desert of sophistry.

She leaves them behind, striding up the mountain,
her Tiffany blue gown merging with the slopes,
defying the winter chill
in courageous search for next inspiration.
What chance has their bitterness against such vim?