Maybe I can start. They think to themselves
with eyes seeing far past the tree
covered hills out the window.
It never happens though and every thought
of their own is covered up by the layers of
grime that pour out of speakers and
Narcotics for quiet minds. Invisible
hands guiding us to what we think we want
most, but only fulfilling the momentary
gaps in our attention.
Fake worlds and friends not possible in
tangible ways have one sided conversations
while thousands nod their heads to no one.
Something is turning us around in its hands
like a crystal stumbled upon in the gravel.
It is looking through us with light, and
does not even believe we can fight.
Which is wrong because there’s always
something to die for.