My days are spent in supplication,
awaiting change despite taking no action.
I watch the hours pass from my false throne,
an obedient servant, I wear no crown.
They label me with their nomenclature,
hail the millennial an avid consumer.
The irony I am want to assume,
is that I spend my days feeling consumed.
Great tides of grief washing over me,
as I witness dead children delivered by sea.
Typed words of anguish I do assert,
yet they reach only those also inert.
An anger that fails to galvanise,
instead I click away to dry my eyes.
Copy paste an endless stream of links,
feeding the cycle that perpetually thinks.
I bemoan the rise of senseless hating,
and lament for the polar ice keeps melting.
All whilst never leaving my ergonomic chair,
loosing my hope in the place of despair.
An age that equips with information,
somehow dissolves away my motivation.
I offer in place, well meaning words,
for my arsenal has no other swords
My form of protest is illusionary
as I sit awaiting the next visionary.
A pedagogy designed to make me pensive
has left me alone and apprehensive.