Deus Ex Machina
There are no gods in these machines
None operating them either
Only scared, anxious, feeble beings
Onto a better future do their fraying hopes cling
No one is coming from the heavens to save us
from the hell that we've designed
The only safety that can be conjured
Is the small phone- sized pocket in your mind
Distractions from global tensions
Bread and circuses used to deflect from political decisions
Why can't the way forward be made more clearer?
Brightly lit computer screens can double as the narcissistic mirror
I do not know if this world is good
I do not know if it is worth saving
We've put comfort before compassion
Believing the material goods will be everlasting
No, the machines will rust and die in due time
What's a king to a god anyway?
All that is gold will fade
Someday soon the machines will no longer play
Thus spoke the deus ex machina
Who will endure?
It's not for this poem to say