It Changes

It changes —

seconds stitch together,

suddenly a quilt of decades and ages.

Filter through the faded stages,

all the bygone evolutions.

Retrace our steps, track down the source

of our epigenetic, memetic pollution.

What atavistic, hungry ghost

haunts the notes of our tired breath?

And how can we make the most,

despite our infection, prior to death?

Is that even the ending?

It seems unlikely,

but certainly uncertain.

It just doesn't strike me —

turn out the lights and fade away?

Still, of some things you can be sure.

Look! Rampant examples day by day.

We all trade the nipple for the pacifier,

natural sustenance for a plastic sleep.

The ripples poured out from the very first fire

proved a flash in the pan that we just couldn't keep.

"Surely," you say, "we've made bountiful strides

by our innovative, dead-set will!"

And while, in truth, I'm not the one who decides,

our road looks to me like a fucking treadmill.

It changes,

just enough to appear entertaining.

We're sure breaking a sweat but I'm dying to know

exactly for what have we been training?

All this panting and straining

and what do we learn?

Pay close attention to the world around you

and you, too, could be a zombified shit.

It's an awful lot to aspire to,

I know, but we've all got the kit.

It's ubiquitous, easy, just lean back and die

on the inside, not outside.

Just do, there's no try.

Don't try.

Don't yearn.

Don't cry.

Don't learn.

Don't laugh.

Don't play.

Don't craft.

Don't say.

Mouth open, dead larynx producing no tone.

Eyes gazing, lights on but nobody home.

In due time, the body will follow the mind

wherever it goes,

whatever it finds.

Somewhere in the middle, consciousness rearranges.

From such great distance, everything stays the same

but here, up close, you'd swear that it changes.