The Incarceration of What Feels

The incarceration of what feels
Reveals in most unlikely manners
The weaponry we fuse to our skin,
Saluting people with the compassion
Of sin.
Our mortal cries of horror lies
At the bottom of our love,
A dove, beheaded.
We wed husbands to wives
To lives of destruction and gloom,
Sets of family tombs,
Set apart and growing daily.
Our smothered youth developing
Mold and growing cold as we pass
The age of reason and bypass absurdity.
Smiles reflect the years that detect
Our elation.
Our motivation falls to research
And shuns mortality like a plague,
Infection at the rate of billions.
The epitome of technology
Breeding the race of dumb beasts,
Numb to the sensory acuity
That once relayed our state of mind,
Our kind is dying
To incarcerate anything that feels.