Literature
Descent
Room of night, hear me scream alone.
You do not know of these rhymes
for nothing can be told in time.
We linger in a space not felt,
never real, yet we are dealt
emotions that can only melt.
Here I am, name of youth, of old,
here I am, too, liar in mold.
Words in truth, but titles to hold
and use, like those Greek masks once sold.
To stare at black mirrors of glass,
where our thoughts and powers do pass
into the reeds of networked grass.
Hearts, but not all souls, mix in mass
turned to faceless haunts of gas.
And now, these new artifacts live
in death, not whole or true. Forgive
this tool as man works to kill, drive
their own to Death's own door. Deprive
our bonds of warmth in hands, so give
these monarchs of new their due. Thrive
in chains of nomadic life, rust
will bind to soul and mind. For dust
to dust, and all is crimes. No trust,
no love. Isolation calls must
be the future of this stardust
and conducted lines. Such disgust
when locked away and so unjust.