The Fields

Down the street past the orange
lights and faded posters ripped and shredded
paper stars on a brick sky.
The movies were there in advertising glory,
till ripped down and replaced by the newest feature,
until a thick hide of posters will be there,
that only a hideous element can pierce.
Next the sparkling computer screen home to
all those databases spinning, churning,
twisting out seasons, movies, documentaries,
till all you can do is watch, examine, follow,
and never create.
So many tales, stories, shows, films,
limitless, endless, a scrolling galaxy of covers,
titles, and synopsis's.
They carve into you and nest there,
a parasite it would seem for us modern kin,
to drain and eat us wildly.
Removing our urges with clever interactions,
elaborate settings, and wonderfully maniacal characters.
Its a sickness, ailment, drug, state-of-mind,
all of that.
We can compete with it however,
our story is our own, our story is our own.

Monsters duck and weave,
on the tails of dreams.