We huddle,

wingless moths,

Around the single light source,

Plunged into a world

Of yesteryear,

Where looming shadows

Cast by candles,

Form an atmosphere,

Suspense and mystery,

The faces of the people

Draped in various robes

Of bygone days

are modelled by the light

Into wax figures


Technologically deprived,

Our bodies twitch,

Our minds

Devoid of screens

And stimuli,


Forced adjustments

Thrust upon our

Tech addiction,


Munching on cold turkey,

Choking on the bitter taste

Of death.

© Sarah Louise Drury 2019

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