Plastic Scripts and Orwellian Blackness
The free-flowing stream of life has dead-ended into backwater brine.
A mundane gray and burrs of cynicism, replacing wonder and smiles.
Suddenly, things seem heavily scripted and sprinkled with saccharine.
A feeling of slow suffocation and being boxed in.
When they smile, they smile with greasy plastic lips.
Whatever happened to sharing the gentler side of hearts
,, giving without glory and the rosy art of forgiveness.
We've been placed on the side of a rain-soaked cliff.
The trumpets and horses are drawing in, shaking the red earth.
A,I. sirens are humming from an Orwellian flavor of blackness.
They used to call survivalists and preppers madmen,
I think they're closer to seers and visionaries instead.
As we speak, the elite weave vast underground cities.
For decades, they've drained lakes and stripped rain forests to feed them.
I'm guilty of looking at life with rose colored eyes
Far behind in practicality and preparedness.
I've read some books on solar power and non-perishables.
Homemade water purifiers and air scrubbers confuse me to no end.
I can hang drywall and change oil and drive a nail.
But for the most part, it's all beyond me.
Grandma once taught me some things about canning and weaving
I didn't take her seriously; I was too caught up in the free flow of living.
She was a seer of sorts and smiled often but never with plastic lips.
I'm glad she's not around to see the final scene of this plastic script.
I do have a cluster of years behind me.
There's an odd comfort in knowing I've been gifted the opportunity to sip
from the free-flowing stream of life...just before the plastic serpent slithered in.
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