Some mornings even
predictions of
daily forecasts are
impossible.
Or maybe it can be
accredited to our
8am laziness, sleep
fresh in our skin.
We turn to satellites
floating above our field
of vision; mechanics my
eyes have yet to see.
Remote contraptions and
technologies guide our
hands like children through
infinite words and information.
The same means deliver
our intergalactic emotions;
from one screen to another,
one state to another.
Some mornings checking the
weather should be simple;
I stuck my hand out the
window and felt rain.
Some mornings targeted
emotions should be simple;
I held conversations that took
little effort or breath.
A 'new' means of gathering
information? Somehow
we're all stuck on wrong pages,
though modes are ever advanced.
