The setting sun dips her rosy fingers
Between the staggered gaps
Of glass-grey skyscrapers
That blink open with eyes of technological light.
As night falls, windows show the silhouettes of people
Half-asleep
Their minds sleeping beneath
The mounds of content
Entertainment, literature, actions echoed by fiction and real-life television
The glorified picture of what we could be
In our imagination.
Trace the constellation
Of human electricity
From the darkness of space
A flickering gold web
Will show information moving at the speed of light
Mimicking the mortal life
At the stove, at the desk, in bed
Until media wraps a blanket around the hive mind
Half-asleep at twilight
Half-awake, watching
Something.
If not creating, then at least, there is no bleeding
The sweat and tears
That waltzes on midnight rooftops
Slowly
Unconsciously
Entertaining the masses.