On the death of imagination...

A picture tube with a million stories,
A click away from sundry knowledge,
I lost my ability in the mountains and trees,
To work my way through every wedge.

They tell me what I need to do,
Back a tell with many a ream,
I stop to wonder and belch a moo,
Need I know or it should always seem.

My tourage has gates and boulder,
Grey is surrounded by a ugly moat,
The plank across is too much to shoulder,
Green is where they painted the note.

Free from the shackles of an open mind,
I learn to obey and accept the line,
Where ideas are not there to bind,
I never sense a tear or a whine.

With no burden but to align,
I live through in calm and peace,
Imagination a forgotten wine,
Never to mix up with my peace.