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Poem

No-one notices,
just like those passing shapes
sunk mind deep in worlds
whose gravity pulls life
inwards towards a nowhere
no larger than a screen.

The real is detached.
Thoughts, feelings, you,
all wired to what inhabits
a dimension midway between
make believe and a hard place -
lives and nations wait 
suspended in a state whose
future sits on the end of a finger.

Horror is always "over there", 
quarantined from view,
dissolving into constructs 
manufactured in the silicon
lobes of an artificial brain.
Then, grinding away
at the bottom of a wordless pit,
an inescapable sense
that someone or something
is watching you.

And in this rising din
of bangs, beating drums
and bottled screams 
in double glazed rooms,
where are the voices 
of the gentle people,
the good people who softly walk 
the earth still carrying 
a reverential wonder for creation
and a book of poems 
by that patron saint
of the human soul,
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson.

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