Finer than the finest spiders thread
The Machine that we have become
If you squint and look up just so
You may see a glint of it overhead
Rising subtler than a suburban hedge
Manicured lawn, white picket fence,
Whole Families struggle wordlessly
In social structures woven from webs
Neither spoken of nor ever to be read
Bright and insidious metallic arms
Glisten in the the hard light of day
Adorned with armies of flagging flags
This most obvious part of The Machine
Raises up our pride but not our hackles
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