We are withdrawn beings that have been created in a separate world,
we become the new times but like fallen strands of sand
we drop on the world and disappear
with our own eyes bonded to land below us.
It builds and builds – this dropping sand – and covers over
the mind
the thoughts
the heart
the soul
the picket fence for which we never hoped,
and the one dog,
one girl,
one boy,
one house,
one partner,
one stable job,
dream of happily-ever-after, that, we know now no longer exists.
Cautious of the man in rags
strumming the guitar in that corner, performer
to rats.
To the
screams of the youngest of us;
laughter of the storm,
its tears.
Ignorant, not. Not of these nor the old tales of battle
told by grandfathers, or greats, or plain-covered books.
Tales, not fables, starting with a bright yellow circle rising and ending
with it setting in each. With our unimaginative words
we re-start, repeat, and re-end.
Indifferent to our cause and effect line in time.
Unwilling to not be unadventurous, to not explore new thoughts, new ways,
to press the delete and restart button in the center of our fun little game.
We remain as the silent generation
of new times,
we absorb within ourselves a new mentality
which we keep secret to even ourselves.
We partake in the silent restraints
of the Internet and the silver thread we hold onto,
to keep our personalities, we throw outside
as a new track is created by those of the past