A writer dreamt of a dystopia
Where the measure of a human was
A director brought it to life
In decadent and morose concrete and neon
tones, A world to make your way in
Where your own eyes look back at you
From the hands of another.
What do you make of a world where
The rich and pale
Peel off their empathy,
Smile for the cameras, and deny
Everyone else their humanity?
There is no Harrison Ford to hunt us down.
The ones that just ask questions
Want to make you do it
So they can keep their hands clean and as far away
There is no dextrous expert to take my crumpled paper
Soul and twist and fold
Until I am silvery and recognisably
Instead I pick myself
Up off the pavement,
Undiscarded and full of potential.
The folds I make for myself are
More curious, but my fingers are sure.
And when I have become my own creature
I will not stand still and papery.
I will cast myself upon the world and charge
Shining through its dreams.