flat minds find feeble ways to
figure the world
bland and boring
sightless and reconstituted ideas
dribble out of their mealy mouths
lightening never strikes heat never spikes
and intellect never hikes there is no
key to the future just a keyhole to the past
the simple act of thinking leaves some blinking
dazed and dull as march mud or
maybe broadcast sunday golf
the world turns but the future is spurned
in favor of the way it’s always been
tomorrow is shut down and put away
bubble-wrapped and packed in climate controlled
forgetfulness
till some unknown frees it from its strictures and
releases it
scarred and weak
into the wild to procreate and generate a
lineage of new ideas
the question becomes
when
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