in the public echo chamber of inspiration,
the dungeon chamber of desperation,
searching for other’s words,
to describe what the autistic heard.
been accused of being a bot,
a soggy tea sock.
as I study the human race,
I’m happy to be a bot, with grace,
they tried to deface,
trouble is, and this disturbed them,
I’m a certifiable dead stem,
feeding on their fury,
emotionless, I’m an abnormality.
I don’t comeback, just sit and focus,
I see them sitting with the screen,
their shadows take comfort from them,
in darkness the sciomancer may condemn.
they think their room is ok,
from the spying of their prey,
but where there’s a shadow,
the darkness can grow and flow.
casting their spells of dismay,
they think it’s just play,
safe and sound, night and day,
but when the final breath is away,
they beg for the light to stay.
no spell, no bind, that would be unkind,
the shadows just watch and find,
the key to their shows display,
now drowning in the swamp of the stray.
the warning is implicit in the kindness that’s given,
their refusal to accept what is scriven,
becomes their prison,
haunting their shadows everyday.
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