I tread through a sea
of screen-locked zombies
Invisible, my greetings
fall on deaf ears
Cuffed to a computer
I question the quest
Souls turned to avatars
Memories reduced to megapixels
My mind is worn and I long for the mothership
I’ve done my job and I want to go home
Alas, the heavens send my call to voicemail
My favorite hobby
Is planning for my death
This is not my planet
These are not my people
I long for a tech-less world
I miss mud and undocumented sin
I dream of disaster
I salivate a collapse
Patiently I wait on
A hope-toting apocalypse.