Contract with the modern world

A poem

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?