How we stay alive/On being told what to see

You’ve said too much, old son.
Explanations are a form of theft.
My first impressions –
As immediate and private
As falling for someone
You’ve maybe known a while –
Have been trumped,
Layered, transformed
And now are gone.

This how we stay alive, old son,
With fresh associations,
Glimpses, readings
Of images that come our way;
New thoughts, our thoughts,
Yet targets for those appointed
To shape our inclinations,
To manage our deviation
From how they say the world
And mind and souls should be.

This how we wither, old son,
When conjured constructs
Harness our imagining,
When unending promises
Cloud our seeing,
Crowd our impulses
And infiltrate our senses;
Seduced, sedated,
Obedient, sated.