Sparkatale

The world has reformed into a darkened room, remodeled;

the chance to breath air again is fleeting, so why try.

I am the runoff of a digital age, where time is red numbers

and your only self is the one you share. We are a social species;

webs entangle our fingers to keyboards.

Unlike Mozart, whose keys spoke

of his awareness, our discussion is a disease;

the only people are the ones we don’t see.

I wonder if you might help me reshape my spine to fit into the box.

My hand is pressed against the screen; can you feel it?

Do you miss the world where sunlight tinkled like glass?

I can still see birds, black birds, stark as starlight, starlings,

they parade about the sky like drones. The trees waft in the scentless breeze,

a green dulled by mist. The rivers, hidden in the grass, are myths.

But my eyes are fixed on my second self. I saw her in the mirror once,

muttering words I couldn’t understand, throwing herself against the glass.

No, no, you can’t come out. But I will make you breakfast

and sell you on Ebay. Reality is hard edges, grey, like New York in my dreams.

Perhaps it is only the rain that seeps through my skin. Are you listening?

Or has ivy crawled up your body and wound into your ears?

Only the dead and the lonely can escape a darkened room, and I don’t wish to be either.

Through my words I wish to rise, like a metallic firework

for isolation disintegrates amongst the stars. I live after

the conquests, the discoveries. I maintain.

I am the runoff from a digital age. I am a shattered moment.

I am the remnants of the dead. Touch me.