No switch to flip nor wire nor plug
Rays of brightest white  
Like clockworks made precise and sure
each day o'rcomes the night

Inventions to enrich our lives,
fill every corner, nook, and crack,
Screens that glow and flash and shift,
compute, process, display and track.

Hush the screaming lights and sounds,
seek refuge in some quiet place,
Loose the chains that tie the mind,
Take on a calmer slower pace.

The rhyming star is a fickle friend,
With mystic rays that shimmer and bend,  
Around and past the would be poet,
With fullest heart though none may know it.

Visions of beauty and scenes in his mind,
Are trapped without outlet and won't be defined,
'Till lamely he finds a flavorless phrase,
Lost in a labyrinthian linguistic maze. 

"I was not born under a rhyming star",
He howls in despair to the silence afar,
An echo returns with taunting and spite,
So he sets down his pen and calls it a night.

The truth will set you free they say,
Give you strength and show the way.
Help you stand when threats come strong,
Make clear the route to carry on.

Sometimes it's true that truth is kind,
Healing hands and heart and mind.
But all too oft it carries weight,
Truths that grind, and crush, and grate.

A knowledge of a harsher sort,
Breaks through to light, a sharp retort.
The darkened hearts that plot and plan,
To hurt, oppress, and exploit man.

Patterns followed o'er again,
Truth and right now labeled sin.
Done before, the outcome's clear,
But boldly on, 

Large even from an airplane window seen, 
sixty miles away.
Built to send people where nobody's been,
the vacuum of space. 

Buses could park on the stripes of the flag,
if it laid down.
A symbol of pride, a nation's great brag,
look what we did.

Here they built monsters of metal and flame,
they tore at the air.
Hyperbole claimed we would conquer and tame,
the vastness of space.

Pushing man and machine to limits then past,
They risked all to explore.
Lionized pilots who flew fearless and fast,
some died on the way.

The men are gone - 

Countless small sparks in a maze of maneuver
Like flickering flames buried deep in the dark
Shimmering, shifting, and boiling below

Less venomous than fire ants I've known;
At least from a distance.
Much prettier too;
From a distance.

We must be warned that coffee's hot,
that smoking hurts the lung.
Knives are sharp and spoons are not,
and sunscreen blocks the sun.

We must not eat the non-food pack,
that freshens packaged foods.
Know calories might make us fat,
and sleep might make us drool.

Labels warn that water's wet,
and bullets might go bang.
Signs to warn of dangers met,
adorn each mundane thing.

We used to use our eyes and think,
to see, assess, then act.
Replaced with warnings bold in ink, 
a talisman of words and fact.

A million years of sand and rain made me who I am
Built up, compressed, washed clean and worn down.
Rusty red, sandy blond, and streaked with black.
I defy the elements openly as an acrobat would 
For Newton pulls heavy on my ancient spine.
Yet I arch high overhead triumphant and grand
Shade from a withering sun for strangers below. 

If only people understood how un-cool secret stuff really is… Scott Adams came close in this strip:

The super secret squirrels convened
Their meeting in the vault
Each day at noon they gathered there
Discussing who knows what

The watchers all looked in from out
As blind and dumb and deaf
As though they had no mouth or ears
To use for baited breath

Whispers swirled from left to right
Then back around again
Tales of conquests in the works
Cabals of greed and sin

Murmurings of secret tech
Sensors, planes, and tools
Laser guns and mind control
Oh man...