Settle

I slept for days
and the seasons changed
as suddenly as
twelve hours can pass without
you realizing
you don't feel
and this is not the
dreamlike state
it once was;
was it?
Everything's gravitated
towards some abstract
point
that can't even be bothered
to stay centered,
and in this half second
I feel it
overly audacious,
to use a word other than hopeless,
to plan for the next twenty years
when the planning itself
will
surely take forty
at any rate.
And it's creeping
like a slow foreshadowing
of a cliched good to evil
morality play
ending on a note of quiet redemption:
optimistic,
reverent,
and utterly boring.
like technology,
harbored into quiet quarters
of the social landscape
holding us hostage to our
new vocabulary
and the desperation of necessity
and our need to control remotely
the whole spectrum:
it's inherently violent;
mathematical.
And we
are
not