Perfect pixelation, night seclusion contrasting my illusions.
Screaming in silence…inner violence.
Fleeing meaning, the swelling emptiness they’re selling.
Craving what’s real…what feels.
Racing as I’m able, stars lacking cables are broken fables.
Outside quiet…then jet fumes and rockets.
Seeking meaning, but finding the emptiness they’re dealing.
Empty hands…no passion that understands.
©November 2014, Christina Anne Hawthorne