Contract with the modern world
Peered over my phone
To live a little
Found it hard to escape the zone
Like the screen, an idea so brittle
Were minds once engines of fantasy?
Did present always need proof?
Now that minds are full of ‘factasy’
Ideas struggle to remain bulletproof
A bunch of days become weak
When a bunch of weeks becomes worth
And a bunch of months leak
Through the sieve like dirt
Romanticism of passage on a forgotten path
Traded for practicality of a path with forgotten passage
Why now the sin of wrath?
Shaded, aren’t you, by the pleasures of this age?