Cold, Calculated World
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Our lives are shadowed
By the cold stare of a star:
In a regimented age
Where we are governed by gadgets.
It ‘s like Plato's apt cave image
In which we're shielded from the sun.
And seduced by simulacrums:
Conditioned from the cradle to the grave.
What role is there for the artist
In a world of shiny surfaces
And meaningless day-glo symbols & signs.
Other than to repeat the mantra?
Perhaps bold creative types should
Exist outside of the crude system
And work with base materials:
To construct new worlds of mystery.
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