I originally wanted to publish this poem, but I have concluded that those who could appreciate it best are right here. Surprisingly, the image that inspired all of this is only in the last lines. Suffice to say, this work is of average quality to me.
~A Cyber Life~
A blend of future and age,
succeeded and recollected only by those
who remember,
gripping nostalgia.
A vessel of plastic,
a peculiar craft,
home for the homes left behind
in a pixelized black expanse,
forged in imagination.
Bleak, unadorned, simple,
yet through the transparent porthole,
a small creature peers at life alien to it,
entertained by the novelty,
even when it is only the ceiling,
obscured by the rim of a purse.
Its body of segmented squares feels an affection,
for the eyes that study it,
even when the depth goes
no deeper than habit,
no deeper than response.
Its years are counted,
but it cannot see them,
and at that fateful year,
day,
minute,
crippling discomfort is called,
and life begins to wane.
The attention or neglect is all relative,
for the little creature could never hear
or see what
could’ve been,
and as fate welded into metal dictates,
the hearse is fast approaching.
A curious hearse it is,
different with each kind,
as one gives to the soul the carriage of an angle,
to another, passage on a spacecraft,
and to others,
the simplicity of a wispy, spirit’s form,
and a stone to mark the grave.
It cannot tell the sadness
or relief of the watching eyes,
but some are granted a curious blessing,
to return from the realms of decay,
and peer among the stones,
at the foreign world,
in the twilight and misty dawn.
~A Cyber Life~
A blend of future and age,
succeeded and recollected only by those
who remember,
gripping nostalgia.
A vessel of plastic,
a peculiar craft,
home for the homes left behind
in a pixelized black expanse,
forged in imagination.
Bleak, unadorned, simple,
yet through the transparent porthole,
a small creature peers at life alien to it,
entertained by the novelty,
even when it is only the ceiling,
obscured by the rim of a purse.
Its body of segmented squares feels an affection,
for the eyes that study it,
even when the depth goes
no deeper than habit,
no deeper than response.
Its years are counted,
but it cannot see them,
and at that fateful year,
day,
minute,
crippling discomfort is called,
and life begins to wane.
The attention or neglect is all relative,
for the little creature could never hear
or see what
could’ve been,
and as fate welded into metal dictates,
the hearse is fast approaching.
A curious hearse it is,
different with each kind,
as one gives to the soul the carriage of an angle,
to another, passage on a spacecraft,
and to others,
the simplicity of a wispy, spirit’s form,
and a stone to mark the grave.
It cannot tell the sadness
or relief of the watching eyes,
but some are granted a curious blessing,
to return from the realms of decay,
and peer among the stones,
at the foreign world,
in the twilight and misty dawn.
