Fictitous crystals amble across my vision.
Smoke plumes from the hole in my head.
Wires and cables reach out in negative space.
The netherworld that laid dormant swells.
I send birds to deliver messages of love.
But crosswinds redirect their pattern.
Antiquites of my selves leave a trail of dust.
I tear at them and scream.
But I have no voice.
A reaction, like a shadow to the light.
My sallow, hollow skin portrays a life.
Dead skin clings to my skull, which is full.
I don’t exist.
I’m an autonomous agent.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
I think I am, therefore I am