1. D LINE
Our pupils narrow at the spinning of the zoetrope,
The windows in a mechanical toy
Granting access to the passing of a thousand artificial suns,
Illuminating figures jostling for hierarchy inside.
Cards are swiped to open gateways to endpoints,
Brief intermissions between scheduled shows that never change,
Transmuted only by the figures that hurdle in and out of cars,
Traversing the ubiquitous ticking hands that mark our days.
The ever-flickering suns irradiate the gold embossing,
A ceremonial relic of an already-expired promise,
Degrees of difficulty finding a purpose on paper
Lining a nest beneath the steel, substantiating the waste.
The magnetic strip worthless after first use,
Cheap, barely visible ink stamped with date and time,
Value guarded by stiff fingers and deep-but-empty pockets,
Heart rate quickens if our minds forget or hands misplace.
We run as we were constructed to run,
On schedule and on our dictated line,
Keeping pace with our peers,
Diverging, we are told, will lead to necessary fines.
Witnesses to our own spectacle,
Most unable to perceive the sleight of hand
Perpetuated by the few
Spinning our mechanical drums set on tracks.
And with our eyes thoroughly deceived,
The free continue to achieve.