Shaped

Before the tangled tentacles of technology
formed a Gordian knot over the mind,
when fingers still possessed the power of sensitivity
to caress and explore with care
any of the emblems of our souls,
life was a passage of more intense artistry.
It was a song from the heart molded in shapes
and we all breathed with intention
to know, discover, taste, embrace and savor
every vivid and vibrant essence
for all the treasure they truly held.

That was the past time of poetic winds
where beauty was fondled and cherished,
where hands crafted the meaning of life
in the subtle abstract embryos of creativity.

Now is the winter of that sunlight,
the time of cold, shrouded and silent mementoes
of an evolved conscious,
full of surreal and distant souvenirs,
using dialogues by emails and texts
instead of hearts and lips.
Taken on journeys of pragmatic meanderings
on cyber walkways of vague and hazy truths.

Lost is the touch that spoke of bonds,
those objects we held and treated as gems
because they were crafted by the spirit
with love and passion to give them life.

Machines are the gods with programming
for a genesis of feigned progress,
they have become the sovereigns of imagination
cranking out the monotonous myriads of sameness
we accept as our only remaining choice.

Before the tangled tentacles of technology
formed a Gordian knot over the mind,
when fingers still possessed the power of sensitivity
to caress and explore with care
any of the emblems of our souls,
life was a passage of more intense artistry.
It was a song from the heart molded in shapes
and we all breathed with intention
to know, discover, taste, embrace and savor
every vivid and vibrant essence
for all the treasure they truly held.

That was the past time of poetic winds
where beauty was fondled and cherished,
where hands crafted the meaning of life
in the subtle abstract embryos of creativity.

Now is the winter of that sunlight,
the time of cold, shrouded and silent mementoes
of an evolved conscious,
full of surreal and distant souvenirs,
using dialogues by emails and texts
instead of hearts and lips.
Taken on journeys of pragmatic meanderings
on cyber walkways of vague and hazy truths.

Lost is the touch that spoke of bonds,
those objects we held and treated as gems
because they were crafted by the spirit
with love and passion to give them life.

Machines are the gods with programming
for a genesis of feigned progress,
they have become the sovereigns of imagination
cranking out the monotonous myriads of sameness
we accept as our only remaining choice.