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Pedestal

You put people on a pedestal.

You expect them to rise to the occasion.

After all, the air is clearer where it's high.

You watch and you wait.

You wait for them to prove their worth,

To prove your actions right.

You wait for them to show you,

To show you that the pedestal is where they belong.

And maybe they wait to see too.

If you believe they can be on a pedestal,

Why can't they be?

If you put them there, surely they deserve it, right?

But that's not true.

No one deserves the pedestal.

No one can survive it.

Pedestals are meant for statues,

Perfect, lifeless renderings of mankind,

Crafted by artisans in honor of our false image.

They're not perfect, this person on your pedestal,

But you forgot,

And maybe, wrapped in your raptures, they did too.

They're not perfect. They can't be, they're not statues.

They tilt too far to one side or the other,

They break the mould cast for them, rotting it from the inside out.

They break and they fall and their pedestal is empty.

Their shattered remains litter the floor they stood so far above.

They couldn't meet your expectations.

Or more accurately,

Your expectations were unrealistic for reality.

Because they didn't know they had to meet them.

They didn't know you wanted them to.

How were they to know the inner-workings of your mind,

When you barely do?

You put people on a pedestal.

You expect them to rise to the occasion.

After all, the air is clearer where it's high.

But they never will.

Nor will they live up to lifeless perfection.

They're not statues.

So stop putting them up there.