To my Unborn Son


My unborn son, I drill down through the wires

that thread my battered brain and ask,

“What kind of world will drag you through the fires

of earthy human passion?”

A world whipped on by trolls whose eyes are screens,

who wear a democratic mask,

rewiring human hearts into machines

devoid of roots and nation.

Machines for which a self-inspired idea

is now a soundwave-bottling task,

for which the orthodox and toadying sneer

is now the height of fashion.

We stand now in an empty dawn.

That’s why, my son, you’ll stay unborn.





© Gammon 2020
Views: 129
no comments or critique sought.
Flag Content