The Digital Poet

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A slow Sunday morning.

Submitted: October 19, 2019

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Submitted: October 19, 2019

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A A A


Oceans of bright ones
In a sea of rounded zeros
A colossus of colluding electrons
And dark potentiates of positrons
That swirl around the narcissistic nucleus
To pixelate, aspirate and finally announce:
True sailing is dead.

We are figments from a dystopia yet created,
Twisted and kissed with the leftover increments
Of failed desires and unsuccessful anonymity.
We be the pirates of the tilted page
Plunderers of past proclivities
Raiders of reticent recollections
Singing the songs of stoic solipsism
And howling at an indignant smoldering moon
Like bipolar bears in an autistic arctic.

We are Peter, We are Paul, We are Mary
We are whatever you want
For in these digital dreams
Our trousers are unrolled
Our coffee spoons overflowing
And our Jolly Roger remains
Semantically unfurled.


© Copyright 2020 Paul R. All rights reserved.

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