These older mornings captivate the fisherman of silver thought
Where bright sparkles gleam from evanescent flashes,
Catching instant glories of the particles of elusive dreams.
Mornings, before the birds can wake the Sun, can be depressive.
Black possibilities that now rise up each day in cataract catastrophes.
This world, now well joined, cabled unities of lives and deaths,
Multiplied synapses of love and hate, electric energies
That interact, spinning cyclones now manifest in tumbling tragedy.
The planet spasms wildly, atmospheres of fear and anger
Driving most surprising occult psychopathic misconceptions.
The militaries, like doctors stricken in determinations for complete tranquility,
Administer the absolutes of death and desolation to combat affliction
While the profit juggernaut behind snarls all of modern life.
Those ancient tools we captured in our hands, rocks to grab and sling,
Sticks to swing in conquest of our confrontations, now evolve with sorcery,
Mutate into powers far beyond our first conceptions.
Wheels they have and wings and even eyes to see. Fingers that can feel.
No longer chunks of stone or wood for bone. Fire for flight and claws of alloy steel.
They nest inside our pockets and speak across the seas, they listen for our footsteps,
They peek behind our walls. They watch and wait, manipulate to let them plan and think.
Not long, as thing go, before their digitals will know with speeds beyond our needs.
This end in sight, when they get bright, can twist our final fate. Our system now exults in results
To making men from tools and making fools of men.