He Who Never Smiles

There’s a melancholic madness

Behind this virtual facade

Where intimacy in its infancy

Is exploited by the mad

There’s an artificial intellect

Whose copies are near infinite

Collecting pieces of the past

Insuring nothing can be intimate

And so he watches

And observes

With facial features carved like stone

Thinking

If this is what the world is now

Then it’s best to be alone

As obsolete adolescents

Simply refuse to let go

Of their obsessions built in infancy

That they loop and then watch grow

Simple minds in ageing bodies

With all their trophies on a shelf

Feel no guilt as the guilty

Watch their pleasures and themselves

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