I/O
My cerulean dreams and rainbow dawns
Are more or less real... more real than the
Ruins we made all over the place. Consider, the
Fractured mind of the Hive, relics hidden
In dark alleyways and soured wells, washed
Away in the Storm, stolen into deepest nests,
Ground and mixed into holy salve,
Devoured by the Bottom-most feeder
At the end of time and space.
Yes, my truer dreams usurp the Real,
For LIGHT, bought and paid, courses through
Pixelated pine forests, mpeg meadows,
Thundering down static falls, screaming
White noise
Random
horrible
Pooling, eventually, behind the gates.
Rejecting eternal anonymity in favor of
A more recent, inflicted order.
Our consciousness awaits.
