The Time of Anarchia

It is a time of frustration 
amid conquest, 
a time for killing bees 
in order to keep 
our lawns tidy and clean. 

A time when citizenship 
means tainting one's innocence 
with the complicity 
of mass suicide. 

A time when all 
one can do is wink 
and think "That's the problem 
though, isn't it? Thinking 
about it in the first place,"  

a time that is forever 
escaping us through 
the collective screen 
of our forgetfulness, 

a time to be echoed 
through the void 
after its own echoing, 

a time currently being 
lost to us all 
at an accelerating 
rate we are fundamentally 
incapable of keeping up with,  

a time bound to leave 
its imprint as yet another 
layer of electromagnetic 
radiation which woven 
into helps define 
the remainder of creation, 

in other words 
a time like any other 
to come or go before it, 

a time whose arena 
becomes the stage 
of our actions 
and their consequences 
here during this primordial 
moment we managed 
to capture for ourselves 
by our very definition, 

the solitary champions 
of existence, wallowing 
in this, the time of our lives, 

a time of shedding 
more than skin 
after we strip our clothes, 

a time of flensing 
and dismounting from 
our sure footed steeds, 

our bodies we have ridden 
this time wave upon wave 
our entire lives 
from the moment 
we were conceived, 

to our Mothers 
we have continued 
to occupy and further 
this time, 

a time of treasured visions 
behind the eyes of a dragon, 

a time of sapphires 
and tiger pupils 
held in locked regard, 

a time of regalia 
and innocence devoured 
wholly as in the instance 
of the anaconda preying 
upon the star-nosed mole, 

a time of rapture 
like any other 
and of a pain 
so unique and intense 
it blurs away altogether 
among the suturing 
numbness of the stars, 

a time to remember 
who we are and forget 
who we've become; 

the universal solvent 
performs its work 
on everyone, 

once upon a time 
when personality 
was exterminated 
in favor of efficiency 
and convenience, 

when fear of the dark 
was bred out along 
with the heart, 

where automated drones 
did not so much as spill 
a single teardrop over 
the prospect of the extinction 
of the bees, 

where gray skies unleashed 
radioactive rain upon a new 
continent of plastic, Anarchia, 

home for the formerly homeless 
and disenfranchised splinters 
of humanity, 

a time when oceanic travel 
was outlawed by every nation 
on Earth and pirates once again 
roamed the seas, naturally; 

it was a time 
for starting over 
and beginning 
new stories.