Panopticon: (Foucault's Prophecy) Poem by DM W

Part I:

These eyes do not glow with a calming light; they cannot heal. They only emanate insidious neon.
These eyes burn through us like hypodermic needles in the frail, darkened veins of our dreaming.
These eyes briefly illuminate anemic, urban wastelands which are too dead to awaken.
These eyes spawn the paranoia I feel in empty subways at midnight: plagued by portentous signs & warnings.
These eyes monitor peeling, once gleaming, weathered billboards; scarred by rapt graffiti prophecies.
These eyes patrol the city limits and the borders between what is and what seems: curtailing freedoms.
These eyes freeze the gentle snowfall of my dreams & visions on wintry nights dipped in moonlight.
These eyes crystallize the dread that is breeding like Malthusian maggots amidst the stark silence of bored suburbia.
These eyes' coded meanings cannot be deciphered. Life lurches towards a fractal. perpetual present,
These eyes are feline, sly & telescopic; seemingly all knowing & omnipresent. Unlike us, they never forget.
These eyes are now embedded in millions of screens. They are like parasites within molecular structures.
These eyes control, via demonic spells, our collective consciousness which is being decreased daily.
These eyes are forged by dark agents and directed by bloodless bureaucrats in labyrinthine, glass towers of Babel.
These eyes transmogrify into totems of power: polished, programmed worlds which are soulless.
These eyes are viral gatekeepers as wild longings and mocking voices seep out from the cracks in elaborate designs.
These eyes observe us as if we were insects. Microcosms of madness spill out on to starless, haunted, dead end streets.
These eyes locate rusted speeding cars, drunken orgies and other 'deviant' acts on grey, industrial sites.
These eyes drain the blood from youth's vital countenance; sound of nightmarish, tainted, metallic crashes.
These eyes cast god-like judgement on ragged malcontents who take constant refuge in mind obliterating mainlining.
Yet these eyes cannot perceive the swan dive slow into azure blue, inner worlds of sweet oblivion.
These vigilant, ever watchful eyes remain unseen. We cannot ever hope to fathom their cold steel depths.

Part II:

We are like Plato's duped cave dwellers. We can only perceive surface processions
of brightly patterned servitude.
We move like cattle along life's treadmill with no acute awareness; on our lips
bitter taste of spectral fruit.
Will we ever be reborn, like inspired Saint Paul, who was blessed in a blaze
of beatific vision?
Will we receive a sudden flash from heaven, like the torn and torpid chosen one who was called by name?
Will we ever perceive profound pathways through societal storms towards scented, miraculous, flowered dawns?
Although we marvel at virtual worlds of instant communication, will a warmer, more urgent communion emerge?
O how can there still be pure, biblical baptisms in this contaminated, modern cut - throat Babylon? !
Alas, we can no longer hear the lyrical lamentations of angels & poets & prophets in the utter dregs of night.
Will we remain trapped in docile bodies as the future unfurls? Will the scales fall from our own eyes?
Will we keep avoiding the greater light, as this parched age continues to bury
transcendent ways?
These vigilant, ever watchful eyes remain unseen.
We cannot ever hope to fathom their cold steel depths.