A poem about to getting caught up in the maelstrom of screen mentality.
In a far, a hungry voice crying in despair.
What may that be lurking,
underneath the dawn of our very own stairs.
Icy shimmering dust,
glistening along the corridor hall.
The body of warmth,
soothing the lungs of frozen air.
Threads of woolen cloth,
Touch of rough socks.
Bristly cringing skin.
Quietly scratching the wooden surface planes,
covering thin.
tippidy toes,
tippidy toes.
What could lie beyond
those doors of bright lights?
Just watch how it pulsates,
watch how it glows
Oh heavens, illuminated TV’s
are those that have been exposed?
Reaching the attention but that of empty souls.
Sucking in all the pride an joy,
right down to the bones.
Thats when empty vessels,
become tomb-less stones.
Bridging gaps of apathy and empathy
on rgb screens.
But little did we know
this became a routine.
Gamma rays and dehydration,
drained to dispose.
That’s prospective dominance.
And so it goes.
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Thank you for your support. — Liam Back
