Rainy Day Poem by Mathew Michael Collins

Drips conglomerate,
fill the view,
no difference
in what
modern children do.
If sun shining bright,
heat, instead of chill,
inside still sit,
the youth of yester-year.
Connected, not together,
separate, but to machine,
only difference to them,
no glare
reflecting on their screen.
No thought of how
to get away
with sneaking off,
catching a session of splashing,
before being caught,
repercussions unhash.
Instead, a blanket,
extra layer of clothes,
in exchange for no need
to change angles from sun's view.
Is this the way
of future, so certain,
set in stone,
ingrained indeed
into our psyche,
into our very bone,
or will life prevail,
imagination of future kids' sail
back to vast lands,
forgotten for some time,
by some,
lost without philosophical pursuit,
sweet, soft poetic wile?
Will the time come,
when kids will meet some
others with to connect,
or are we truly too late,
unduly fate,
no way to correct?