Subconsciously racked onto our brains, unaware of the origins.
The wires, though sitting halfway across the flickered room,
are impossibly linked to us, halfway across the flickered room.
The shadows dancing of hues and saturations,
of hints of what could be words, what could be substantial.
Containing the standard, yet shirking to provide just this.
Bare minimum we are fed through a screen, meals pushed through the pores.
Bare minimum liquid words, from the station to the brain.
Bare minimum accepted with rush, with fervor.
Accepted as substantial, for it's all we know.
Yet should we look inside, the meager meals become known.
The human mind, starved weak, stretched taught on thin bones,
still accepting the meals with fervor and delight.
Skin doled among bones, bones assigned skin to protect the vulnerability.
The collapsing skeletons of human minds wander in and out,
weaving through what we are given, trying to piece a thought.
From what lacking we are provided,
such lacking the harvests reaped.
Still, every night when sunlights and skylights flicker out
and man-light replaces these with its odd hues and saturation,
we partake in this restricted meal,
deemed the appropriated dosage, a standard set by invisible hands.
The Invisible Hands, the framework behind our words.
The same hands that coax the skeletons into submission,
to believe what is given is plenty.
Night after night, we sit,
eyes shoved with blasphemous meals, ears clogged with useless "must-knows."
Night after night, sitting in a human-lit darkness,
we wait and wish for the feeding tubes to deliver something new.
Praying for this meal to finally be enough,
for this feeding tube to present us with the new standard.
Yet night after night, in our self-imposed
hues and saturations,
the same meals are recycled and shipped straight from the Invisible Hands.
The wires as feeding tubes.
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