Blue twilight glows on the flickering screen, A world trapped behind in a fractured scene. Black and white snow in a silent dance, No soul remains in this static trance. My hand freezes right at the edge of the light, You step from the noise, from the void of the night. Radio Silence. The Dead Station calls. I’m isolated as the gray ash falls. Numbers like bullets, numbers like ice, The void in the screen is the only price. With every digit, the dust fills the room, The screen-snow is weaving a shroud of doom. My feet lose the floor, I can no longer feel, Fading away into something unreal. My vision dissolves in the dead-pixel swarm, Just a dash in the code, losing my form. Gray dust on my lips, gray dust on my eyes, The child’s voice chants where the frequency dies. Radio Silence. The Dead Station calls. I’m isolated as the gray ash falls. Numbers like bullets, numbers like ice, The void in the screen is the only price. The walls crumble down into hollow space, No canvas, no truth, and no human face. I fall fast asleep to the roar of the hum, An exhibit of what I have now become. Seven... Five... One... No one is home. Nine... Zero... Deep in the chrome. Grainy skin, a flat-screen screen, I’m just a glitch in the membrane, unseen.
