Static

I swiftly dissolve into the foreground,
every time you come around looking for it.
I wear my anonymity as a badge.
In plain sight I fly below the radar that will rob you blind tomorrow.
I stand where you think I will be found
but, that is too easy to be so.
From within the squishy depths of an unformed idea,
I produce the utterance that soars
like white noise.

White noise, I am sad to report,
is something that we have systematically erased from our lives.
The station never ends.
No waving flags. No bowing heads.
No abrupt drop to the scrambling nothing.

The shame is felt therein
from empty shape are born so many inspired things.
Artifacts that now will never be had.
Our need to feed constantly upon the fat of entertainment
has severely slighted us the quality of things we pour into ourselves.
We demand so much.
We flood our senses with anything we can.
In the turn of demand and supply we find that
quantity trumps quality every time.
We will take anything over nothing any day.
So much does fear of empty hold it's sway.
This oldest call, subliminal, harkens to the day
when our own signal will be nothing more than static.
In those moments,
the ones we have left behind,
will judge us by our absence.
They will quickly find a way to change the white noise of loss.
Through the blight of binge till providence provides
the next beating heart.
In their finding, those past become a sacrificial offering
to the god of the constant.
Desperately hope for the unending warmth of distraction.