Twisting Poem by Sridala Swami

In the end we have dystopias:
visions that arose with the steadiness
of smoke in a still room
but grew too large for cohesion,
preferring dissipation
to the sightless certainty of columns.

We watched. That is all we did:
watched faces as they came in and out of focus;
watched as the angle of our vision widened
to include even what we would never see
in our lifetimes. This is how we begin.

Somewhere in the middle
we lost our way:
we thought of mazes and labyrinths
and brains folded around themselves.
Patterns teased and seduced us.
We believed we had all the time in the world.