What is it, that, contrived by man,
Designed at first, by human hands,
To read the seasons by the stars,
The Sun, the Moon, Mercury, Mars?
What is it that binds us to the land,
The plow, the desk, shared, and planned,
Enslaved us all, with angst, and ire,
Measured by our productive Empire?
What is it that our mornings dread,
Calls us from our comfort bed,
What rules all, yet sets us free,
the paradox, my soliloquy?
What eludes us, from the eternal now?
What Pursues us, compelled somehow,
To live more life inside our heads?
To ponder past and future threads?
© Danisms 2016