The Poet of Technology
Junked iambic song of love.
Buried righteous skeleton.
Wept — “It’s not my fault,” The poet to the wall,
“Indwells a loving sympathy, seeking yearning symphony,
magic rhymes more worldly, than structured cosmic wind.”
jagged screams scrapping all that is holy —
every mother’s son;
any ancient wisdom,
all the work the sun;
has managed to do;
in brief millenium.
short circuited transistor, holographic imagery,
artificial intelligence in the news,
round the clock satellite beams,
all the churches empty,
collecting dusty pews.
Transitional habitats sink in toxic fumes;
amid bureaucratic verbosity.
Earth — shaking — rock rolls
stoned, alone children; separate, puzzled, angry blooms —
Plastic saviour will they all deny their family name,
forsake tradition, land of dream;
gather in uniformed security; stripped of Only: for —
Wept — “It’s not my fault,” the poet to us all.
“Release my loving sympathy. Search the ancient prophecies;
mystic runes more worldly, than our fractured sins.”