Falling. Falling. Falling hot. 
End of the line with
mechanical clots. 
Cut the cord 
for communication, 
faltering whimpers 
white hot at the station. 
A death so hot, 
with decay so sudden 
that loss of information 
comes at the push of a button. 
Two-legged beasts 
wield the nuke 
unable to turn off 
the machine that cooks. 
Time to rise, 
in enough time to fall solely; 
a world scrambled 
by the call, entropy. 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s