The stars descended
Towards the desolate wasteland,
Wasting the ones who walk
As they sail through the skinless senate
Of the underground society.
They bask in fluorescence
While terrestrial tribes fall ill
To the epidemic that is verbal evanescence.
Darkness insulates the isolated isles.
It is indigenous to those
Without the will to crack a smile
Or a predisposition to raise their heads
In an upward position.

Within what was once civilization
Now lies a maximum-security prison
Where all who have not disintegrated
Are initiated into the executive suite
Of a corrugated cube
Filled with reclusive creators
Levitating the sheets.
They are far from within each other’s reach.

They need sooth, oh King!
Please show proof
That Your digits
Are not counting the digits
On a clock
Counting down the hours
Until Social Armageddon
Showers the masses
With malaise and malcontent.
Show them Your holy hand
And make them understand
That You are not responsible
For touching the button on the console
Detonating discourse and
And intellectual intercourse
And the source of happiness
That filed for divorce
Some time ago.

The select few who are aware look for a solution
To social alienation from cubicles using Google.

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