Feathers float on winds of change,
riding high up on the thermals,
ocean waves crash the beach,
in regular sequence like a second hand.

Crash, crash, crash, crash,
tick, tick, tick, tick,
time rides a run away train,
on flat tracks, with no way to stop.

The hopes and dreams,
of the innocent young,
left sitting at the depot,
as there can be only one bag checked.

The train is full of others,
help them if you can,
feed them, clothe them,
provide a little comfort.

Then climb the ladder to the roof,
spread your wings and fly,
only the brave will do this,
the rest are content to ride.

Soar while you can,
but still tethered to the train,
see past the tracks and the trees,
look at the hills and valleys.

Then one day your feathers,
will float down to the sea,
where a final wave will wash,
and you will cease to be.

The world is a vampire,
it feeds on you, slowly,
year after year,
frustrations and agony.

******* the life out of you,
allowing you only moments of peace,
small bits of joy and love,
to let you recharge.

Then the feedings begin again,
perhaps this is the matrix,
and we are but rechargeable batteries,
powering something, of which we are not aware.

Farmed in massive arrays,
and kept alive for power,
and the amusement,
of our owners.

Treasures hidden in plain sight,
covered by the daily layers,
can be seen from above and below,
given the right angles and conditions.

Intrigue piqued,
as the search continues,
watching and shifting,
moments and opportunities.

While remaining untouchable,
except in rare occasions,
occasionally everything lines up,
leaving you a vision burned into memory.

But once seen,
you long to see again,
through the layers,
the game continues.

Shadows of the storm,
rage above icy waters,
last breaths of men,
long lost above.

Water and steel collide,
the harder doesn't always win,
and the fears are smothered
to blackness in pressured depths.

No last meal,
goodbyes are lost,
perhaps one day to be found,
scratched into bulkheads.

So sink into sadness,
weighed down with ore,
along with 29 men,
lost but not forgotten.

Rivers of thought upon the page,
some smooth like glass,
a few quick with faster flow,
others like rapids rough and choppy,
the dangerous ones fall off the precipice,
influencing others to do the same.

Humming giant neon signs,
flash words never spoken,
there is no rhyme but a reason,
the people's dreams are shattered.

Keep your head bowed down,
to the digital God in your hand,
you can look upon nothing,
just see the printed words.

Text your responses deep into the cloud,
the tapping keys are the only sounds
no words are heard, eye contact never made,
but games are played, in this electronic age.

Interaction has been reduced,
to photons and electrons,
projected eye to eye,
yet the truth is hidden.

The music still plays,
but it is never shared,
transmitted in to your ear,
and you dance, alone.

Obsidian monoliths,
black hole generating gates,
like pools of liquid time and distance,
waiting to be swum through.

Hidden on the Moon,
cached within the Earth,
ensconced on Europa,
or at the convergence of ley lines.

Travel to other worlds,
dimensions are at hand,
wormholes in the timespace,
to be explored and adventured.

All that is required,
bravery to take the step,
through the fluidity of the universe,
to arrive at another island lost in time.