too much

on the verge of apples
i gave in to an inner thirst
it¹s like the eleventh hour
and no poem
it¹s the end of the world
and an empty dome
too much too much
too much caffeine
too much electric weed
too much to do
too much modern man
where is the simplicity
that we used to
court in the bush
on the trail of animals
and thick hides to
block us from the sun?
where is the
consistency of tides and
the knowledge gained
to bring in the breakfast
with wisdom
me full stomach
undisclosed by empires
and lost only in
the dimpled dream
of yeah man?