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
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem