all things

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.