Custodians of the obvious.
Gatekeepers of the beige.
Self-appointed alchemists
who turn other people’s risk
into their own recycled similes.
They stab with adjectives
and call it insight.
They curate disdain
like it’s a virtue.
They write not to open a door —
but to prove they’ve never walked through one.
No one remembers their names.
Only the blood on the page.
