Fakespear
to dream, or not to dream,
that is the question.
Whether tis wiser for one
To travel this common road,
Or to take oath inside imaginations court
And swear truth and merit
to the unknown, the uncharted, the ungoverned.
To swear of substance in black hole labryrinths,
To swear the hearts impulse
Be language truer than any tongue.
To declare, to conceive,
and by conceive I mean to give life.
To uncover the love obscured in this unkept garden
Of weeds suffocating flowers.
To conceive a fantastic reality of architects
Humble avatars, architects of wonder from the stars
And in such declaration
What freedom may come?
If we should cure this plague of recycled thought
and reach beyond our senses
beyond all boundaries and fences
and suddenly touch upon a new plain.
But this,
This what you see is what you get
This planetary whorehouse,
This consciousness,
Doth make machines of us all.
--Providence (NYC)
