Generation after generation,
Vice and virtue breed with one another,
Until hate is easy, and love is maudlin.
And hearts, like flies over muck, do hover.
O that one could sever this sullied past
From we whose hearts are stained and sunk by it.
That which we are told to put first, comes last,
In the order of crude survivalists.
Love is preached and praised, but rarely practiced.
Art is punished unless profitable.
More valued are the words, about them, lisped.
So we cannot bear to leave the bubble.
In your own reflection find your own way
To marry past and present with today.
God repay the conscienceless engineers
For the pure sweet hearts with which they gamble
Seek not their greed which monetizes fears
And goads minds like picadores goad bulls.
They don't seem to stop and wonder "Should I,"
Unless the "should" could threaten the bottom line,
Until that line becomes their only why
And they call conscience just a Luddite whine.
Oh, how easy, on them, to pin the blame.
For they would not be "they" without users
So vulnerable to weaponized shame
And words from anonymous accusers.
They could not act so low were we not vain,
Don't let them choose what is true, what is sane.
Thank you for reading! I greatly regret that I will most likely never be able to meet you in person and shake your hand, but perhaps we can virtually shake hands via my newsletter, social media, or a cup of coffee sent over the wire. They are poor substitutes, but they can be a real grace in this intractable world.