Whispers, Death Comes From Within

A circular hum of beginnings, murmurs, whispers,
Rhetorical questions silenced by laughter,
People trace themselves in each other's eyes, feeling nothing after,
Like the computer language of machines, navigates sesame windows,
Metamorphosing through the universe, revealing that concealed in verse.
 
Remote controls click as souls wither, datum expands.
Satellites, assuaged with oils, soothe absent souls to keep gears free of splatter.
We corrupt our creations: It's how they do it, not what is done that matter.
Computer wombs and silent breasts are nothing more or less
Than the humanity of changing things with blossoming aches & wanderings.
 
On a Missouri prairie,
The decadent signs of progress are clearly visible now,
Reflections of hollow souls peer back at us piteously, all passion bled
Clinging to a worn-out concept of what we were meant to be,
Hanging precariously between here and there, instead,
In transition and unable to bridge the gap.
 
Unlike a Sparrow-God,
Proud of all living things, we're obsessed with technology.
Under the moon's dispassionate gaze, an army of poets
Whispers through the haze, once again:
The heart and soul of humanity no longer remain,
And where they once were, there is merely a brain.

Martha S. Buckner