Prima Materia

The chaos, the alchemy, that yielded you and me
The Golden Age of beholden days follow us around
Our ever-changing selves, nano-second blood-brethren
particles, partial prints and imprints in memoriam of time,
non-linear–what was before and what is yet to come,
the anxiety asymptote of setting it aside in lieu of NOW,
Forging every precarious moment and setting forth
upon the infinitely delimited present in our presence
and unfortunately to so many, the lack thereof; as minds
seek out saturation of TV dinners and the faint blue glow,
the shade of which so aptly painted the portrait of their prisons,
their minds locked on and in doing so, locked in, to Progress,
"Success" and the expectations set not in stone, but rather
through the airwaves, developing a sixth sense of sorts:
Tuned in, turned on, but most certainly not dropped out,
That's not the way, that's not the way, that's not the way.