Deep within the reactionary mind, lies the shell the of a former self
A youthful and optimistic futurist, in which times forced it upon the shelf
As the internal monologue continues, in an age where it seems to be so rare
”How can anyone look at this as progress, and not gleam from it despair?”
The shiny toys of one’s youth, that was promised to him on a dream,
A mask of sorts to hide the rot, as things became not quite what they seem,
The rabid pushing to get on board, take before one has a chance to see the destination,
Damned to hell on earth, invasive checks, no longer sure of when they left the station.
So as they ride and carry on, we few onlookers watch in horror at the sight
The rushing speed of acceleration, as derailment may come sometime tonight
Or perhaps collision, for there other trains abound –
Other nations, other peoples, unable to process the horrors and the sounds.
Yet for those on board so many do not mind, they simply sit and bide their time.
After all this was the future that they were promised, kept perpetually juvenile.
So for you and I out the windows we watch, yelling, trying to explain!
”But so far we’ve kept the course as the conductors say, why must you complain?”
So the time will come again to pass, wherein the youth will board
And stand in awe and silence of what once came aboard
But as the trains speeds up once more, their minds were quickly dulled
Save for the disappointed futurist, who knows what has been culled.