We, who know the full gravity of our situation,
We who are not numbered, who are extra to Fibonacci,
And the order of the patterned or sequential world.
Are, unlike the steepled people or the domed.
We are incalculable amongst the cavernous golden section
Formed within the skull of cosmic creation;
Something from nothing, as at the singularity
Or something of nothing?
Be it by chemical chance or natural innovation,
Here by our wit is, exposed the rub,
That is between birth and death.
It lies within the formality of our laws
And the design of opinion,
In all that is furtively socially engineered.
Who next to correct?
Who to collect?
Who or what notion
Are we to forever elect?
Once adopted however,
Then the crystal fountain of the free
Will freeze over.
Then whatever we decided
Shall become testament to our new truth.
As sure as the dross floats
At the top of the social cauldron.
Where the hand grabs,
And the heart grasps,
And the inspiration of life gasps.
The people will be kept continually lowly,
Content with their tap tap tapping out
Of the notions of their gritty lives.
They are expressing their desires on a virtual whirl,
Of scrolling light and imagery.
During which the great algorithm of fate
Is Keeping them firmly fixed
In the cross hairs at the heart of big data and marketing.
This population in general, will never really attain
What is truly needed by them.
Because the spirit is weak and the flesh is strong.
Those of the higher dross know
There is no requirement
For anyone to meditate
On matters or matter of which
They do not want to be sold.
The Maxim of the day is,
This is my life, my body.
I will choose whatever I want,
I know what is best for me.
Both Chemical Chance and Anti Depressive Algorithms
Turned to each other and smiled.
Another chink in the armour of the poor was confirmed.
And it’s name was ignorance.
© 2018 Christopher Thompson