I see them wandering,
enacting their wills,
from one blind escape to another,
and none see the frivolity of misguided whims,
when thoughtless egos placate their dreams.
The joke never appeals to them,
so serious this bleak weathering of life,
not too close to truths that could ignite
an unwanted epiphany,
a self-realization that to them would be spite.
Oblivion is the lifestyle of choice,
less detailed and of comfort’s reward,
not seeing what’s coming or what they’ve just done,
gives strength to the ego
that can’t be undone.
The streets are packed with ducking, weaving souls,
in plethora directions, blank face in molds,
and they are so earnest, so focused, astute,
in search of their precious lots,
such puerile pursuits.
And vacant they are with their self-centered whims,
the carrot leads onward, on a thin piece of string,
and so the masses in their matrix of sorts,
their chosen oblivion
its own accepted reward.
I wonder sometimes
if they know what they’ve become,
expressionless faces and feet dragging dumb,
or are they what they most definitely appear,
21st century zombies, just hunger and fear.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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