I write. I’ve been working on this one awhile

We fought through the jungle, through hunger and night,
We mastered the darkness and harnessed the light.
We fashioned a world out of silicon and glass,
Then worshipped ourselves as the centuries passed.

We built our own altars, our faces the shrine,
Called vanity virtue and madness divine.
Now everyone’s angry, and lonely, and ill
With thousands to hear us, but no one who will.

And somewhere beneath all the noise that we make,
An old human hunger is starting to ache

For fireside laughter, for hand holding hand,
For loving each other
and less to command.


Should I keep going or end it here?