|All of life, a cutting edge.
||[Mar. 20th, 2015|02:01 am]
All of life, a cutting edge.|
Too soon the edge splices and splays.
After image burned in kamikaze eyes.
Violent lives, ending soon.
The cut a mark of love and death as it comes for flesh to end the last cut.
The first mark.
A world that does not understand samurai.
The rugged individualist, in a world of grey goo.
After burner played while still we execute double buffer raster graphix.
Engines of colors our minds and the code written therein and executed.
Sacrifices made, sprites designed in the middle of the night.
Midi sounds altering minds.
Still so much room to play.
Still so many games to design.
The games and the players.
Still we go.
Even as we play the kings game with all the kings horses and all the king mens.
Thousands of cards will not put us together again.
Fortune still favoring the minds that would make the game even as it was played.
Know is it a game you play, or a life you live.
Without conciousness their is little difference.
Sleeper cells programmed by false smiles.
A million false smiles parade, as they cut.
Blood for icari warriors in zeldian adventures played upon icarus, even as we seek xanadu.
X's and Y's find line.
Lines written dreamed recorded and played.
Execution, electronic dreams, dreaming of playing a universe on a keyboard.