Silicon dreams
Of interpreting themes
In poetry that doesn’t exist

Shattered glass
Under a fist
Of a soul just confessed
Laying naked
on the breasts
of a girl who doesn’t exist

Spasmodic beams of an electric tease
that makes you hold your breath
For the 100th wonder of a world
that still doesn’t exist

Creating a meth –
Ode
To be systematically sold
To those who can virtually undress
Their souls before a blank page
In spasmodic moments of rage
With the clear cut ability to confess
In admission to crimes that can’t exist.


Filling our minds
From time to time
With thought that
don't....
still....
can’t ...
possibly exist.