The Never Too Late
The Never Too Late.
The medium invents the low and high,
Interned unable to hide,
Within every vicinity of the naked eye.
Roget fuels the silk screen, of
The magical bypass machine,
Whispering nightmares into every dream.
Firey words to woo the slave,
create the frozen splinters,
of calmer, less romantic, days.
But, backspace, where is my place in it?
Is it the chase and tackle, the new standard of wit?
Or the will to imitate the disguises of a proper fit?
Prisoners by the same weight,
the bid is placed on a perpetual fate
but offer freedom to the Never Too Late.
Within the prattle, play and stage,
Committed to every page, the attempt to
Snare reason; the soul prophet of a day’s wage.
Feather the shattering paralysis we animate,
Mill the stone, speak, and watch water vibrate,
And detonate the variable of the Never Too Late.