A Hypocrite's Attempt At Convincing Folk To Unconvince Themselves Of Their Convincement Poem by Colm Keenan

The world is one big show of persuasion.
People try to convince each other at every turn.
Some animals exhibit their teeth;
others stamp a hoof or trail it through the dust;
there are even frogs that inflate themselves beyond predatory consumption.

More and more tonal inflections seem to be creeping into speech.
I turn on the TV and watch the newsreader smile here and frown there,
emphasize certain words and mutter others,
the pencil-drawn eyebrows rising and falling,
seismographic needles of doom.

I go to the cafe with a book and end up being drawn into the happenings at the next table,
the orchestral sleight of hands,
the synchronous sounds of laughter and awe,
the tacit agreement even in disagreement.

And yet, I myself am of stuff.
I can be sensed by others and so too must play the game of convincement -
and by so doing, I sense others into play.

But what are we trying to convince others of?
Or ourselves of?
If we were to mull it over, we'd need no convincing as to its lack of substance.

Anyway, it's all just a game, bearably unbearable, uselessly worthwhile.
The dice of movement keeps our eyes from doubt.
The trumpet call deafens silence.
And this mucker mucks about with words; tries to inflate himself beyond a page.