Programmed from an early age,
To trust your life to the cold unblinking system,
Distracted, distanced, too weak to engage,
When the need is a deep abiding wisdom.
With transgressions, large and small,
Wars always radiate information,
And politics broadcast it all,
Before the ignition.
The pretext presumed,
Democracy will give us a cage,
The people will want their cage.
And a nation will be consumed.
But the absence of names builds a quiet rage,
And the hollowed out remnant, reconciled to the truth,
Of an analog echo to a hidden age.
By W.N. Branson 
