Dreams of Future Past

Why is it when we dream we are rarely able to read the words that are on the walls?
Or inside the books, tombs, and greeting cards of our mind?
We've forgotten how to read our own hearts.
We no longer no ourselves, our friends, our family.
We are a desolate creatures.
Locked in time.
And stuck on screen.
We now let other people live our lives and fantasies not even tasting the fresh air for ourselves anymore.

How come the sounds of the greatest composers are drowning out?
When did the commercials become so loud that we forgot we weren't listening to them.
Buy me.
Sell me.
Trade me.
This new model is better in every which way then your old one.
And now it's time to trash it.

We allow ourselves to be placed onto the assembly lines everyday.
Which fuel we intake, which covers we install, and which scents we wear are all decided by a box that cares no more if we live are die.
Yet we worship this machine everyday.
When did we all become passengers?
And who is even driving?
I sure don't remember handing anyone my keys.

All we can do now in this day in age is reboot.
Standing-by, idling, and sleeping are getting us no where.
Being force-fed garbage is melting our cores.
And then pretty soon we will be just as lifeless as the machines we pray to everyday.