Impermanent haze pretends
to mask shards of incompetence.
If the scared soul could stand still,
maybe wounds replete with animosity could heal,
could seal in hopeful juices not rancid,
Flitting souls abound, drown
in too much noise.
(Silence isn't golden anymore.)
And how many years will pass,
will fly through digitally-enhanced
fingers flinging words through space,
trying to replace touch
with pixelated versions better
suited for the fantastical
because ordinary just won't do?
The stimulation shark has no threshold,
more, more, more, please
of unarmed brains willingly
passing power over --