Imagination
On the cusp of extinction.
Surreal dreams, tethered.
Creativity, withered.
Can't fly, so heavy.
Can't think, so clumsy
Can't contemplate, only can process
what we're being fed.
Our minds, concealed.
Can't think, shut up.
And keep running
like a dog playing fetch
or a hamster running
but getting nowhere.
Keep running
from what you've really got.

I miss those days

when I saw a fascinating shine,
even in a mere dime.
Or the beauty in a snake's eyes.
Whole civilizations in the clouds.
Tiny little monsters I used to draw.

Now, my mind is elsewhere,
pretending to be an intellectual,
it wanders from eccentric angles to factorials
and making its way through the Lissajous curves,
makes a perfect robotic locus.
Studying!

See.

It used to rhyme.
It used to question.
It used to weave poetry.

Now it does none of them.