The Network
All the watchers gather, eyes alight with lucid reflections
their pulse pounds together, their fingers fly as one
thousands and thousands, awaiting the latest and greatest
zoning out and staring in, they pretend they are alive
This story has the makings of an epic ghost, a festival-maker
or the ruined guts of terrorism if the watchers think in anger
'Who would take away my little place of peace in the pie
that person, the blinking blue terrorist, deserves to die.'
So many origins are among the free thinking eyes and ears
untarnished by the hum or buzz that makes slaves and saviors
they don’t know the true power of media or martial prowess
But throw themselves unthinking at the fray with hope as a shield
Smiling grains of pixilated magic, among the wordy corridors
that transform a man’s desperate hope into campaigns of horrors
they think that because they have the viral green thought
they should make what they will of the world with things bought
If prophecy is more than just an educated guessing game
and logic doesn’t fail or run to ruin and degradation,
then some events are there to erase the sins of shaded past
This empire, too, will crumble, and our eyes, too, will be opened
At our computer terminals, keyboards tapping away the frames
we languish among the heady lines of text and free games
When the screens of the world flash blue and say error,
will we blame the sins that made it happen, or blame terror?
poem by Poet Dragon
Added by Poetry Lover
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