Dead Butterflies

Hearing the ticks

of cold fingers on ice-cream keys.

We all, from our caves


the information waves

needed to breathe

but coded in lies,

we deceive...

We're hacking into

towered systems

to de-code foundations

and upon relation to ourselves,

restructure the organization

of a million lives...

Worlds reduced to cyberspace swirls -

As we stay

binary by nature,

each side holding convenient truths

for the playground.

Cold-hearted and battle hardened programs

Lead us to war

where sold eyes

will ignore the color spores

and we spit, like data signals,

blind black

into each other's backs...

It is


delineated by a drive

to fully function

during the fleeting seasons

we may survive...

And I predict

that in the aftermath

of selfish smoke

we'll finally learn to cry...

In the wake of grey...

Dead butterflies in a pond

will render the city calm...

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