Dystopia

Here a mansion, there a metal cube, Now a street, and now a numbered route, Here a faith and there an attitude, Now pajama bottoms, now a suit – So many colors blended into white! I watch the people pass like frantic ants All vaguely trusting that they share a hill, As if in some symbolic foreign dance, Seeing no end, they yet possessed the skill. Details un-wed by purpose flood my sight. What shall I make of this strange unity, Both cause and balm of modern man’s frail soul, That drowns his need of meaning in a sea Of diverse efforts toward an absent goal?