the sound of the whistle of the outward bound
    teased the still night with its earthy timbre
and i suffered the pangs of a poor  lad, found
nursing a dream about getting away from it all
           like a learned doctor i was on call
              an order i knew was rather tall
                       if calamity struck
                   in the heat of the night
                            with my bags
                                  packed
                   and my naivety ablaze
                                just waiting
                                      for
               ­             a reason to go
                                slip away
                   into the hungry darkness
                   and never ever look back

Print screen my whole being,
in the cadence of seasons changed.
Generation X's sweet heartbreak.
Strangers share the pain.
We walk the walk online,
nowadays,
in these times that are a changed.
Changing no more - subtly maybe.
The footfall of history stored,
in Google baby,
& terrabytes & ram.
A virus called.
And the rhyming stalled,
until;
Man made museums in nothing, but,
soldiered components,
smaller than the eye can see.
Nano moments,
lost in scrolled screens,
likes and comments,
compassion shared
around,
the world,
until forgotten;
fads
fade
away,
into familiarities.
Then we logged out of life,
and left reality behind smokescreens,
of PCs
HD ready, on blue days -
Blue Rays,
now smaller.
microsized.
Our brain waves microwaved.
Attention spans,
in the palm of our mouse shaped hands.
Say goodbye to the old days,
guilty as charged,
in
the strife of low battery life;
running out of charge.