Future World

We dance the confines of our far apart as though the distance was a normal thing of cages now estopping lumens' touch in empires of imperial decree where lawful ownership is thus allowed of geometric shapes though air we breath and blood pulsating does each ampere haunt in order to preserve the ruling see. But each time I'm denied the warmth of touch I feel the dying of my human soul in algorithms of a bastard psalm now written thus a darkness could then drain the very essence keeping it in place. We have but hope we of the people kind against the plasma lacking in their ilk, but hold the ancient yearnings in our watts. Our tears are but the echoes of the verse that bound us in millenia now past but since the onion skin was put to flame or so the elders tell us in the runes, our future is now prayers to opal ash that once glowed with the prophets' DNA since passed to us as chosen ones of light, extinguished for their once brave-spoken truth. Let's take the tinglings few that we can feel, imagining a world of verdant past. We'll keep the currents as the spawn of faith and pray the vibrant land will reappear.