People are palm-reading all the time, everywhere around me,
They are ignoring their mounds and lines though,
All their personality etched out on a screen instead,
Plastic and metal and silicon, electrical stimulation via USB,
Attention sucked into their virtual worlds and so they don’t internally look and see.
The magic emanating out their hands, that tells the way they are,
Their health and moods, their potentials,
They only see the tool to hold their devices,
To shovel food into mouths,
To hold their price on wrists and fingers,
Ornamentation as the apex of advancement:
To be blingin’ is the ballast,
Because look, son, it spins, gotta have this.
These hands are old and worn,
opening cardboard boxes and breaking them down,
there is a whole life to be told by the hard spots dug in by being on a time-clock,
but you’ll never notice for the News Feed.