It is said that poets turn into swans when they die
beyond East Sarutarubuta, in Abyssea where cranes have never danced
a world of monsters, of signs, short bard songs broken by battles
a simulacrum, a reskinned hierarchy of data, random number generators
and polygonic avatars duelling with tiny speck imagination
outside, the earth dies
I can't help but feel irrelevant
the seventh umbral era is upon us
only 2012 will tell
writing is a declaration of belief in a future interpretation
change is a difficult concept to integrate into perception
with each echo these letters transform
with each echo these letters transform
with each echo these letters transform
I am trapped in a dungeon
the clocks run backwards
the minute hand is missing
this is a false reality
I found a word that could unlock my amnesia
and woke up, forgetting it
but remembering its existence
like the time
I won a Radio
head contest
my entry?
the word
EFFECT
written in black
on a scrap
in a dream
soon the chariot will overtake me
and for this too soon year,
I will speed beneath the stars
remembering red winged blackbirds
and foxes being fed french fries
tomatoes crack and burst on the vine
while lavender hopes flourish
where will poet souls go
when the swans are gone?
when we lose their imaginary song?