there is nothing to see in these lines

there is nothing to see in these lines
there’s no authentic voice
to drown the river of madness
this isn’t the mouth of a monk on fire
in the attic
this isn’t a review of planned obsolescence
for machines of the flesh
this isn’t about how you’ve been cheated
into reeling like a thief
in the halls of your own life
this is not a circle of ravens
bright as morning
this isn’t new york
this isn’t about what you did
or did not do
last night
this isn’t an insult to your new religion
this is not meant
for the rulers of the world
their cruelty lacks imagination

this is a man
at a desk
and nothing more

he busies himself with strange and secret wars
it is utterly insignificant
he looks out into the vast winter morning
he wonders how long the walls can stand
the sheer force of his brilliance
he thinks the trees will keep him warm