The Poetry of Danna Reed

The borders of my brain
touch a red dusty haze
clinging to the carcasses
of once upstanding figures:
books and formally taught concepts.
The destructors are laughing, dancing and feasting and kicking high
in circles around the soft surviving core,
useless now without its liaison.
In its big, innocent, incomprehending eyes,
the orange, fiery, brutal images are reflected--
the offspring of a three-second-attention-span society.

I am in a white-washed happy farm
with steel smiles and motivated machines
walking briskly
in circles
cooing at each other.
That's reality.
Would you let your mind stay here?