Mr. More

Mr. More
Photo by Jack Krzysik

They drive faster where they drove slowly
And yet leaving snail tracks
Build machines and speak them holy
Grant happiness in stacks

Their time became a plastic flower
They started sparkling like whores
And money grows – has all their power
The large net shoots fungal spores

Think they woke but they are sleeping
Trading freedom for a golden cage
They hold tight instead of sweeping
away remains of a dark age

The once strong fortress – now it crashes
A door unlocked by a luminous key
And new life blossoms from the ashes
They will grow eyes and start to see

An ideal unspecialised creation
Their curse is that they can not be
It’s restraint to rejuvenation
Becoming is what sets them free

(heavily borrowed from Rilke)