I’ve found myself at times
worshiping at the light
of this screen, and could not
recall afterwards how long
I’d been, or how much I’d given.
Only I felt relieved
to be done, picking up
my head or pushing back
from my seat, thinking
“Okay, now that’s out of the way.”
Where had I gone afield?
Lulled by what fair sirens
singing in reds and greens
and blues an argument
that required my attention
but not my awareness?
It was like the anti
particle of being
in flow, the negative
energy of negation itself.
Who demands such worship?
What master or machine
wants everything of me
but my soul? And I left it
unattended, a parentless child.
R. Charboneau
Artwork: Book of the Dead of Hunefer, circa 1275 BC
