Due to digital data-diddling
and excessive visibility,
we have technical delirium
over the event horizon.
DO NOT FEED THE MACHINES
At a certain distance
there are unseen worlds:
one minute you’re here
then you’re in my dreams.
DO NOT FEED THE MACHINES
The silence above us
is silvered with frost;
more answers go missing,
move even further away.
DO NOT FEED THE MACHINES
We are short of dimensions
and have run out of reason,
live as sounds in the night.
This is my final transmission.
DO NOT FEED THE MACHINES
© Rupert M Loydell