Poetry

The Figment of Days

Trapped,

we are the squirrels and technology is caged us,

so ironic that this is, too, electronic verse

floating in the clouds, nowhere and everywhere

meandering as ones and zeroes

until plucked for the taking

Measured,

time runs around, no longer hands

no longer ticking, just moving

nowhere and everywhere

technology like the people, lost

even words may no longer matter.

Thrown-away,

the discard of everyday, tomorrow no longer matters

nor does an hour from now,

we are forever on the run

missing everything, tossing it out

with the garbage we are doomed to be.