Mausoleum

These are the commoners' tombs,
These are the catacombs of the once-living;
Trapped in chambers of emphatic habit,
They lack self-sufficiency and inspiration.
(Not their fault, they were raised that way.)
Insectile embryos in stasis,
Dulled by convention,
They shift their limbs autonomically:
Devoid of awareness,
Busy or idle, their actions
Are equally ineffectual.
These are the numbers pinned to their byke-cells:
Unit, age, income, ID.
Names don't matter; they only serve
As sorting aides
For merchants' promos and philanthropy pleas.
What are the ways they wile away
Their off-duty hours as they gibber and wheeze
Into lengthy retirement, a desolate span
As flat and featureless as their present?
They lounge in their nightclothes
And munch on chips
And gulp down lightly narcotic brews
While a cable drama in minor tsunamis
Washes over their furrowed headlands,
Flushing out unwanted fears and news
Concerning the crises of the morrow.