On Myth and “Progress”

Number eighteen,


There was an age when we believed
in what we could not see;
the things our eyes could not perceive,
our thoughts would sculpt, and write, and weave
and call the things to be.

Their voices echoed in our minds
in our ancestral tongue;
we freed the voices once confined
to sing their wisdom to mankind
when modest Man was young.

In time, we let the song recede
and turned to senseless sight;
we caged the spirits that we freed
and turned to codes and rules and creeds,
all penned in black and white.

We now believe in framing dreams,
in bottling our sounds,
subsisting on eternal streams
of data bursting at the seams
and gasping til we drown.

What age to come may quell our pride?
What message could inspire
such misled Man to look inside,
to close his eyes and hear his Guide
whose voice would lead him higher?


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