Dr. Mr. Orwell,

You were right.
Big Brother hovers,
an omnipotent cloud
sneaking into every crevasse
of the glaciers
he’s placed in front of
our harrowed steps
up the mountain
none of us knew we’d climb.

Without a word
escaping our lips,
he knows our thoughts
and places his restrictions,
garishly flashing sound-bitten ads
on the pages
we once were able
to read in silence.

Just like Winston,
we seek shelter
among proletariats
who suck at our teets
with wanton thirst
for all that he will not allow
us to provide for them.

Big Brother has ensured
no shelter,
for it would detract
from the icy hike
he has put in place of
the rolling surreal hills
of the life
he won’t allow us to imagine.

I ask now,
as you toss in your tormented grave,
how so closely you could examine
the future,
how so bitterly you could speak
of the unwanted brutality of truth,
how so easily you could predict
the world we would rather depart
than be a part of.