2045. Winter lasted in vastness of cruelty;
It was the third year and Spring never arrived.
Seasons got lost with the Earth’s axis shift
and in exponentially disordered nature,
just before I surrendered the body
and emulated my mind into the NET, to be hived in qubits of
a subterranean A.I. Panopticon with the old name I-330,
I tuned into the poetic molecular assembler
to say goodbyes three times and break off the old bonds;
Soon, I walked in the fields of coupled blue eyed grass
and yellow primroses;
self-replicated light budded over repressed dark emotion,
longer Spring days sprouted in warmth;
laser rays busted mount of clouds
and the sun shone in radial nodes;
The sorrow wished for the point of death
a stone throw moved thoughts to an old garden
is it possible, may this cup be taken from me
over a thousand years ago, when I was a child;
How free were we?
Only the cathedral bong at 6 p.m. was our chaperon,
we run through the chirping nearby park,
jumping all over swollen creeks,
we often looked in wonder at lovers who would pause
every once in a while and crowned their stroll with kisses–
we teased, giggled, and laughed,
old women set on benches, whispering,
and old men argued loudly,
always around the newspapers betting on politics.
O, what is a power of life and all poems that
germinated in words to bud a red rose of meaning,
verses cut with a precision
of diamonds’ atoms
that caressed every smile and bruised every tear…
the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak
…now all lines are crossed;
My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away
unless I drink it, may your will be done.
They turn us to a muddy trope
where memories merge into one Hive data
stamped by controlled approval….
Look, the hour has come
Still they treat me, and often separate some synaptic pathways
so I can tune not polluting the system
with the rebirthing melancholy for every lost downcast snowdrop;
they make me smile in a new baroque warbling styles
with a poetic prostheses, where authentic is misplaced in a hall of mirrors
in limited Terabytes of rhymes
Forever, lost is the self in the chemical gardens of novel “Versailles’s.”
Rise! Let us go! Here comes my betrayer!

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