Dreams of a New Age

'Some have it, that the world's a great machine,
Or rather, an automaton under heaven's laws,
That helplessly clutches its moving jaws.
Or perhaps, a puppet flailing its narrow limbs,
When pulled by the the shadow above its strings.
Be it this or that, I'm inclined to think,
When travelling by air, I see the city-lights,
Or remember pictures taken from distant heights,
That show the orb, as if lit by thousand sparks,
That there is a blind order, a silent pathway
That all must follow, as best they may;
And when to thousand directions the sparks do move,
For same reason, thousand corridors their owners race,
Unknowing and unheeding, their dreams do chase.
And whence those dreams? From memories of races past,
So that when the race is at its end at last,
Same men shall take their place, and same queen
Shall dream of drones, at the very same scene.'

So at least thought one such man, having left
The corridors behind, done his repeating toil,
Of pressing buttons, or some just as pointless deed,
That to no progress and no meaning shall ever lead,
And having to sanctuary of nature withdrawn,
Now would dream and gaze to the sky before dawn.
And what should he see, if not visions of his age,
How past the sky would flow wide streams of gold,
That the puppeteer lets flow, from above his hold;
Or perhaps how the continents move and drift,
When those streams suddenly their angles shift;
Or life herself, gazing at her azure reflection,
Wondering how emotions shuffle behind every production;
Or sleepy-eyed death, who now lets his scythe rest
Between the mounds of her solicitors breasts?
Or something else, some mosaic of infinite hues,
That better describes the vision that none yet views.