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screen glow reflects off obsidian lenses.
eyes peer through,
darker pools and brighter lights
behind them.

pixels scan and fire.
electrons cycle in excitement and rest,
reds, blues, and greens engaged
in futile effort of replicating universes (in 1024x768).

plastic keys dance beneath fingertips.
tiny ridges read the letters raised along their slick surfaces,
longing to touch the cool warmth
of a soft cheek instead.

processors channel lightning in digital streams.
ones and zeros follow silicon creekbeds tinier than touch,
yet something flows
between/beyond the binary.

they say there's a ghost in the machine.
i call for a recount,
thinking there may be many more
within the labyrinth.

"Mr. Watson, come here. I want you." —Alexander Graham Bell, 10 March 1876


I'm still waiting for the bad poetry. When do you roll that out?
Um, have you been reading my journal?

In all seriousness, thank you.

(did you play with line breaks on this one too?)

favorite stanza: 3rd
Imposed a pretty rigorous form on this one throughout. I get like that sometimes. I'll show you later.

The third stanza is the heart. Not surprising that you'd see that.


excellent...i'll look forward then.