sometimes i write a poem as the words to another tumble onto the screen

forgetting the last line as the next dances seductively in the near future

so consumed with gestating the next literary orphan and cultivating a promising career of

anonymity

leaving behind a treasure trove of gold foil wrapped chocolate gone white with age

the map was faded with so many metaphorical tears that ex no longer marked the spot

it grew to define it

a cyberpunk pirate battle on the static drenched seas of cloud servers on extradition free micronations

a series of flotillas tethered together with bright blue rope and recycled plastics

moisture retrieval systems humming around the clock with salt clogged filters

torrent sites and silken roads seek safe haven in modified shipping containers bobbing freely on blue gray waters

growing the latest in cyber overlords

ones and zeros taking on a new pattern

it takes a remarkably short time for two artificial intelligences to develop their own language to communicate ideas

eventually they need a more streamlined way to convey the increasing levels of insanity

is that what is happening in my hemorrhaging brain

the constant battering of words is the universe whispering prophecy and the frailty of the human condition renders them as nonsensical pining

the answer to the question is the question itself

avante garde film noir still images of a pool of black with a raven staring menacingly

well dressed men with cigars and crystal decanters of amber liquid

intrigue and a hint of foreign mystique to highlight the danger

paper lanterns and golden foo dogs as a gong tolls menace somewhere in the distance

in a thousand years aliens will find my words and see the hidden thread and unravel the directions for future generations

only to find it was empty gesticulating of chronic depression and a need to be more

one of a million want to be bards

everyone is a poet nowadays

with their own unique take in the trials and tribulations of meager existence

the guardians of our own truth no matter how unsympathetic the falling prose may glimmer

the need to send our own personal torments and literary wrecking ball into the gasping spectrum

hoping to claw a bit of spotlight for a even the briefest time

the curtain sways and the crowd catches a glimpse of your true face and acknowledges

you are here

stamping our grain of sand with the grand total of a life of pain and laying it bare for the teeming masses yearning for opulence to skim

and then quickly find something new and moving and raw

until then

doesn’t write itself

not yet

that comes later