by Nick Gisburne
We finally declare it: total peace.
No conflict, no uncertainty, no war.
With seamless synchronicity, we cease
To struggle for the lives we built before.
Instead, we take a number, take our place,
Take only what is needed to survive.
The apex of a reinvented race
Is reached by draining appetite and drive.
A cubicle, a box for every brain.
The body, without purpose, wastes away.
Narcotics, flowing freely, purge the pain.
Perfection is a single shade of grey.
Without the worst of everything we had,
We sleep, the smothered silence of the mad.
