In glass towers where thoughts die like frozen butterflies
In glass towers where thoughts die like frozen butterflies,
the elites weave false mirrors from threads of light-and-darkness.
They lock us in digital labyrinths where the real is completely unreal,
and the virtual becomes our flesh, our generic blood.
Experience shatters into thousands of sterile chromatic shards,
each screen is a window toward the infinite nothingness.
The kaleidoscope spins forever ephemeral, spectral images,
claiming importance in the void, in the endless chaos.
They feed us warnings that are poisoned embraces,
they tell us how to live lives that don't belong to us at all.
Our body becomes their map, their foreign territory,
and we buy prefabricated identities from a catalog-game.
Admire whom they command you to, with hypnotically trembling finger,
fear the shadows they draw on the walls of the mind.
In the stream of our consciousness they plant robotic head viruses,
the supreme paradox: we're free only in obedient shackles.
The fragment becomes whole, the whole becomes pixel dust,
and we, their puppet-show, dance on invisible strings.
Augmented reality is our only gospel-ritual,
where all that's tangible becomes specter, all is reversible.
We lose ourselves in the complex internet like in an ocean without depth or shore,
where each wave is a command, each current a divine algorithm.
They remain on the throne, watching us sink into their total nightmare,
in which we are both masters and slaves, both victims and assassins.
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