Fourth Gate Poem by Joseph Narusiewicz

Scripts made of digital soul
This new hour of neurons without muscle
Old world gone by the matrix
We meet on a shore of pixels
Earth like some foreign eyes
Garlic and celery metaphor

Will you understand me?
Can we raise the armies of love?
These days are hypnotic
They possess
They are subtle with the serpent
We must fight

Ravished in myopic blues
Tube amps sweet like jazz
My hair is long and gray
Long walks break through the numb
Quiet is my guru
Wind like an old poet

Monroe supple and waxed
Walk in sheer silk night
Shadows stare like curtains of satin
Pedicures with bright hot fire
Six speed lover
Trust knocks on the heart

We come to the fourth gate