The tips of my fingers resonate
this morn, with the musicfrom her silence, which keeps
me in a cell with no windows.
Only small peepholes,
the eight bright ones offered
by Chrome; they ain't sport
today though, no painkillers.
My eyes follow the plot still,
pipe dreams a few open;
while my shackles are loosened
enough to let me scroll
from one vision to another,
in search of that glare from reality.
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