Moving pictures are your realm,
No beauty in the standing elm.
Freeze a picture perchance you’ll see,
The movement in the stillest tree.
Turn a second into an hour,
The painted picture has the power,
To convey the deepest thought to mind,
Than speeding images, passing blind.
Your time is stolen, piece by piece.
The movements never slow or cease.
Flippant are the moving frames,
Indiscernible words and names.
A waterfall of images,
Disorients and pillages.
The point it seems to hypnotize,
Those who fail to recognize,
The very thing that they convey,
Not spoken in the words they say,
But in the pictures they project,
One part elusive, one part direct.
The passive action that you cede,
Numbs the cells that yearn to read.
Reflection calls for those who dwell,
On words that rise and fall and swell.
Hold a book within your hand,
Pages turn like falling sand.
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