Waiting for notifications,
Like watching yourself ageing,
Is making a slow cage out of your own anticipation,
Hovering above while seasons change like radio stations.
Meanwhile, notifications from the world arrive in wailing klaxon sirens blinding lights revolving round like signs for fire,
Panic-soaked aural reminders of the burning skies behind you while your cage,
Immune to blazes,
Keeps you shielded from the flames
The famine and the tragedy,
The murder and the maiming and the fate of babies,
Children born a little way away in wars that tore through all the static but you haven’t heard the station cos you’re waiting
Waiting, watching, scaling ladders of anticipation,
Every incremental drip has washed away the seas of pain we should be drowning in.
You’re frowning aren’t you?
Well it’s far too late for that; your followers are crowning you as more important than the facts of death, we’re all infected by the virus to be viral:
Hope to screen and screen to hope to screen we’re in a spiral while the world we’re in continues to spin and tornado by you but –
– You are the eye and the eye is so rarely idle…
As it Watches for a notification –
In the time I wrote this you’ve been steadily aging.
If I ever tweet this I’ll be patiently waiting,
For that little bell to have its dot on the pavement.
I’m igNoring all the notifications –
In the time I wrote this I just hope they could save them.
One day I just hope that I’ll look up in amazement,
If I ever stop to solve this hopeless equation.