lady justice to whom I bow,
i mean no disrespect when i inquire,
how will you protect freedom now?

the engine hums for the call of the small constellations
that twinkle when catching their gaze up above
the lone biker chased the fading road with no warning signs
which is an endless line where time intertwines
both delicate and cruel to unravel
through the shadows that creep in the darkness
memories start to stir in a spiral motion
the old withered echoes whispered in soft voice
sounds of laughter, love, dreams that where once bold
have now became fragments of a folk story being told before
the throttle twists tightly in disgust
leaving the tires to burn with smoke rising
a path started to appear soon ahead
and with an uncertain turn the lone biker rides through hours
that blur and blend within a mixture
a journey past leaving a road to mend
with each mile questions began to float in the air
questions of who they are
and who’ll be there waiting for them
the past was a weight that for sure can’t be shed
and yet forward pulls where souls are lead
the silence sings of battles fought
where moments are lost and lessons taught
the future was a road to the unknown
but with each rev there was a realization that they aren’t alone
in the rhythm of the ride
they soon find a solace in the shifting winds
the past was a map of twist and turns
and so the future awaits as they return

It’s a broken world
we need imperfect solutions
and there are plenty of questions

is it even possible to correct systemic
problems with individual solutions?

I recycle, so everything’s ok, ya?

some would usher in a revolution
while others would stand pat, thinking
they can marginally beat the house

the young believe the old are problematic,
out of touch and largely to blame for the world
the old push back on youthful, impractical,
self-indulgent and self-righteous idealisms

both groups must eventually wrestle with thorny questions

I doubt we could all agree on a short manifesto
or even a pithy rallying cry.
How about something brutal, almost offensive?

Dylan Thomas suggested we rage against the dying of the light,
but then again, it seems that's all we do these days—rage.

There’s a Korean concept called hwabyung,
or “burning sickness”—an intense, suppressed rage
that can blind and destroy us if we’re not careful

Science says we face a direct and bludgeoning future,
that we must be tenacious with the next phase of our evolution
—but must we be adults? Science is so 2014, and we’re all so smart.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance the Night Away by The Mavericks
I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack

We are not yet ready—intellectually, philosophically,
or morally—for the world we are creating. In the next few decades,
old ways of thinking that have served us well for hundreds, even
thousands, of years, will be called into question. New debates, controversies, movements, and ideologies will come to the fore. Some
of our most deeply held assumptions will be revised or abandoned
altogether. Together we will need to re-imagine what it means to
be free or equal, what it means to have power or property, and even
what it means for a political system to be democratic.

Jamie Susskind, from Future Politics Living together in a world transformed by tech

Ticking,
Ticks,
Tick goes the time—
A rhythm unbroken,
A beat beyond our grasp.

No space to dissipate,
No void in time.
It marches forward,
Unyielding,
Untouched by our pleas.

Time is ever-present,
Yet never ours.
It slips through fingers
Like sand in an open palm,
A constant that we cannot own.

Those who know
Feel the pulse of the clock.
They understand the watch—
It beats for those who seize it,
For those who rise to its challenge.

Do you hear it?
The whisper of moments
Passing unclaimed?

Rise.
Face the ticking drum.
It's time.

Though the form is abstract in nature,
And the lines are intrinsically Art,
The eye reverberates— gyrations!—
Revelations of that which cannot be seen:
That which is wrought by design.

I am stuck
in a rutt
the identity
which no longer feels like me.

She doesn’t clean
is hardly ever seen
making a healthy choice,
so when she does they rejoice

clap and cheer
supposedly sincere.
She knows they care,
but it’s because of that she doesn’t dare

change her ways
in all of her days.
so here she sits
digging herself a deeper pit,

of low expectation
low appreciation
no admiration
just pure desperation,

to get out
so she can shout
‘I’m free
and there’s no one here to see!’

A place of her own,
a carefully curated home
where there is every chance
of a little spontaneous dance,

or kitchen karaoke
okidokiartichokie.
Anything goes
an endless prose

of dreams,
finally redeemed.
Tidy places
and new friendly faces

which have no clue
'cos they’re new
and there’s no one here to skew,
the way in which they view

the life she created
and now holds sacred.
The food she eats,
the place she choses to sleep.

She is kind
and likes to find
hidden spots to go
and let the ink flow.

And she can share
her work with care
because she doesn’t have to care
who is going to care.

If they think
she is starting to sink,
or not doing enough
behind the endless bluff

then go
you're not someone she has to know.
Nobody new
will turn her blue.

That doesn't mean the people she knew
turned her blue.
She put herself in that box,
but then forgot

how she got in,
as under her grin
she started to grow.
Beyond what she could show.

So go,
somewhere unknown.
Be new and sparkly,
find someone to kindly

sparkle with you,
and never allow the gloom
anywhere near
wherever you steer

together.
Find a new forever
that is not set in stone
and will allow us to grow.

Never get stuck
in a rutt,
the identity
is now forever free