He focuses on the plastic.
Looking down at it, focused.
His voice disintegrates into textual ashes.
The world fades away, sober.
His fingertips extend virtual touches,
But fail to capture the soul’s thunder.
Yet he focuses on this plastic.
Like magic.
Looking down at it, hypnotized.
Looking sideways he dares not,
For his life lives in this gadget.
Connected to all,
Yet disconnected from life.
He lives on the plastic.
Reaching out for it, excited!
The mastery of the swipe!
Enslaves his soul to his skill,
Leading him to confound
Fantasy with what’s real.
He owns the thing, yes,
But fails to feel
The warm pleasure of joining a family’s evening meal.
His soul becomes plastic.
A hard processed thing; a lifeless fiction,
With no desires, no Life!
i.e. no dialectical contradictions,
With no fire, no spark!
Nothing
But for the plastic’s cancerous fruition.
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