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Dead Butterflies
Hearing the ticks
of cold fingers on ice-cream keys.
We all, from our caves
relay
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
escalating,
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...
