by Cliff Beck.
In the long hours of darkness
humanity huddles around flickering flames,
aching bones pressed against unyielding stones,
while shrieks and growls fill the night with fright.
Then the heavens reflect the firelight
as aurora borealis fills the sky
and mortals begin to understand why,
where from, and what’s to come after the final breath.
Dazed by the censers haze, bemused by the splendour,
confused by the bells and arcane spells
minds are ossified as a shared idea
becomes a panacea suffused with power, blood and steel
and crusaders take the cross against heretics of every hue.
Corporate steeples
tower over mesmerised people
dazzled by the celebrity razzle,
frazzled by the fulgent fripperies and folderols,
fazed by the maze of sound bites, deep fakes
and counterfactual remakes
of what was once called truth
as everything is quantified, digitised
and profit maximised.
Fragmented, bewildered and dispossessed;
deprived of dignity, integrity, home and hearth
the populace waits, bereft and powerless,
for AI to take control and replace the human soul.
Black mirror on the wall
this does not feel right at all.
Your self-fulfilling prophecies are stultifying fallacies;
empty vessels where distortion and mendacity
grate, grind and reverberate around
unable to make the haunting sounds that stir the spirit.
Quietly, insistently, intuition
nurtures these doubts, these seeds of hope,
re-awakening volition,
rekindling a longing for the fireside,
and a return to different ways of seeing,
better ways of being.