In this, the death of a knowable God,
we have turned to seeming absence,
to vacant pleasures; staring up at screens,
inviting opinions as prescriptions,

and living within the squalor
of the new great depression.

We've slipped into poses, robes
of Moses, walking to the reservoir,
the old abandoned quarry of our minds,
we meet him in the clearing;

the clearing of breath and hearing,
of inner thought and all questions answered.

In this lack of discovery: invention of distraction,
we have descended to fractions, morsels
of attention; all worship of the celebrity,
for lack of concrete alternative.

Don't take me back to the past that I crave,
nor lock me in the misery of today;
for, my eyes belong to the future,
to when everything is okay.