The Garden: Mechanical Blooms
(Recalling a World Built on Wires and Whispers )
The sunlight felt warm ,
even when it came from a screen .
I wandered through a garden
stitched from circuits ,
blooms too perfect.
Every memory loops,
repeats like a
blue-toned animation .
Was I tainting the garden,
or being tainted by it?
Mechanical plumes
I once called flowers,
never knowing the wind
was a fan behind the scenery.
Vines climbed because
the script demanded it;
trees tickled softly like
grandfather’s clock.
Childhood built on
pre-rendered wonder.
Roots whispered in
binding petals,
unfolding by algorithm ,
not season.
Paper petals,
clockwork trees
humming in circuits,
puppet sunlight spilling
over silicon soil.
Even here,
the rules begin to fail.
Floors tilt,
descend,
the law that kept
reality upright
fractures .
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