They swoop in, glowing and feathered, claiming beneficence, a parody of the Annunciation, and we say it’s the same, like eating rocks and calling them bread, but deep in the cavernous backs of our minds, we know there is something not quite right, not quite good. Though we’ve bought it all anyway and still do; whatever they’re selling, we’ll take. We’ll let them strip our skin and make it silicon. We’re OK with our muscles turning to steel and our minds getting replaced with bytes and bits and rusting out, slowly, slowly, slowly.
An eloquent and hard-hitting poem about the grim times we live in.