by shaun lawton
There's some who will think we're hexameter poisoned.
They'll whisper of hair-like fibers and micro-fleets
sent in by secret government operatives.
They'll tell you every cackle in the flame of the campfire
is the enduring echo of the screams of a generation of families
enslaved to tyranny. That for every spark popped off
and leapt into the night trailing behind it a disintegrating series
of glittering dust points toward a household getting burned
at the stake in the empire of Fallen Rust.
They'll say anything to hold your attention if they must.
These should hitherto be ignored if we are to proceed at a pace with good candid reason.
Yet to wholly disregard them risks appealing to the succession of inevitable treason.
We'll need each other's range of skills to get across the threshold.
We can sharpen our skills in these balancing acts to neither repel nor retract.
Stay true to who you are and that should work itself out in the wash.
Trouble is they're slipping in some rotted plaster into the crumbling mix.
The system is assigned mortality when planned obsolescence gets worked into it.
It then has a limited amount of revolutions to undergo transduction
before the ratio of decay breaks its orbital circuit.
Every action has a refraction period behind its synapse.
Time itself grants our every opportunity to recharge.
When we breathe in and back out with patience
We prepare ourselves to meet the world at large
