iceinmyveins's Diaryland Diary

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jet trails

pixels, ones, and zeroes-
not open to interpretation
assured of meaning by a blinking screen.
Ode to the automaton children who sit in there rooms,
who take in the ads, breathe and consume!
Where are the birds calls? Shh... nothing.
And where is the moon?
Overrun by satellites, occluded by jet trails.
My precious children are imprisoned,
abandoned in a dark, musty tomb:
stacks of pages rotting in a basement,
dusty as death and obsolete as a ballpoint pen.
It’s much more progress and a lot less doom!
Grandfather’s hands are folded in death-
banished to the attic by his digital heir
who doesn’t tick or tock, but hums softly as
he sweeps the hours off the edge and
into obscurity.
So...
Nod if you can hear me.
Good.

3:28 p.m. - 2008-04-12

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