the mark of our society
is everywhere anxiety;
with information
overload
our greatest notoriety

i cannot sleep for worrying
and freaking out, and hurrying,
i’m stuck, i think,
on panic mode,
in snow that’s always flurrying

in towers made of messaging
our own misfortunes presaging
i dream of walls
and banquet halls
and none of it is lessening

the mark of our connectedness
is what a brother-dunking mess
we find inside
the cyanide
we pour into each new abscess

our interweb, an interlace,
this disarray is our disgrace,
so many screens
just magazines
to show another frantic

face

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure. View all posts by Beleaguered Servant