Que Sera, Sera Poem by DM W

Centres are broken.
Machines drip with oily blood.
Endless feedback loops
of distorted voices haunt
screens and cloud airwaves.
'Buy now, pay later' seems to
be the mantra that
mirrors casino economies.
Lost in labyrinths
of infotainment, we can
never return home.
We are now exiled from the
fertile womb of life.
Neon and plastic dreams are
always on offer.
Yet they cannot satisfy
deeper requirements.
Even the seasons implode
under the weight of
post-modern meaninglessness
The swollen head of
spring bangs on the window of
Time like a mad man.
Days speed by like flashes of
lightning. News items
are the shadow plays of this
troubled age. They cause
hysterical reactions,
rather than measured
responses. Future shocks
burn through psyches and
expose event horizons.
Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.