My Generation Part II - Rigor Mortis

We had planned it all perfectly
so who could possibly say we were
wrong? Gripping cliff faces and sky scrapers
we clung to our plan, and waited for
the ground below to clear itself:
which never happened. Instead, the insects
multiplied, hatched from mothers feeding
from our own loving blueprint, creating
products to sell back to us when we landed,
iphones, ipads, and other electrical hooks.

The hunter becomes the hunted.
After a while we could no longer hold it,
and hurtled to earth, getting concussion
as our heads hit the ground. When we woke
we saw ambulances and concerned faces,
security keen to take us back to where we
should be. Ushered into vehicles as the storm
struck, we wept inwardly, but knew we were
being taken for interrogation, after treatment,
to learn more of our generation, our discontent.

On day release we looked into the eyes
of our oppressors and felt nothing,
saw only the greed, the need for machines,
the computers that had taken control,
minds that had simply stopped working
in favour of electrical oracles, dating services,
e-card constructors, random friend generators,
millionaire-makers picking out two per week.
It made no sense. What had they done?
We climbed back to the precipice, and looked down.