The effort's mundane and we are dedicated participations.
A simple string of words exchanged,
Letters beamed up to satellite and scribbled on page.
Numbers and lines decoding our blind conversations.

Proximity proves that the heart is immune to location.
A scratch in your voice and a beep from the other line,
Pixel-ized faces only numb the passing time.
The lack off emotion masks a lonely frustration.

We are lacking what our connection needs most.
A fickle flicker that exchanges what we need to know.
Doomed by imprisonment behind screens and phones,
and I am acting as the predators host.

I vibe what should be felt up close,
The most transparent thing to see.
Commonly focused on something other than me,
the eye has no agenda to boast.

Utterly infected by this exuberant virus,
holding my court,
preventing distort,
I am the Iris.

(possibly, maybe, not finished)

My moral compass is delicately crooked,
always pointing East even when aware of the descending sun.
I need to deconstruct this internal locus and reassemble cell by cell,
until I am unaffected by the magnetic people and their vigorous pull.
So subtle is the change of direction that happens every day.
So obvious is the need for control in solely my own way.

But to reject all other poles is irrational,
because in the end,I would be a slender silver needle spinning wildly with no direction.
Even the voluntary can seem controlled by an unspeakable force,
or the nudge of a voice whispering the next move into my ear.
Should I follow the South of my ancestors or the East of my peers,
the West of society? The North of my fears?

A push one way fails to answer any questions,
disorienting my lead and un-aligning the poles.
For now I will pause in the grey area of each direction ,
silently waiting for a queue from within
a neutral force in a battle I can not win.

Yet, I can not wait here forever .
Eventually the needle will stop spinning,
and the navigation will begin.