She stands in the darkness, her face like a star in a black hole,
The sound and sights enveloping her thoughtless mind,
The digital light diving deep into the depths of her soul.
Like a robot controlled by the inputs, she is unable to freely think.
Her hair a birds nest, her skin as pale and chilled as winter’s breeze,
She gives in to the brainwashing, a slug crawling on the ground to nowhere.
A stone statue wired to society’s perfection,
The hard slick screen projecting the world as others see fit.
Musky clouds of soot and ash confine her anaerobic flesh,
Her unkempt nails shaking and clawing into the helpless cotton bunny.
The stench of sorrow and lifeless flesh linger in her path,
The digitalized colors replacing the pigment in her eyes.
The canyons of her eyelids pull at her skin,
Her mouth repeating meaningless words displayed on the screen.
A fruitless seed, a seed lying in nutrition less rubbish,
Raised in darkness, living in darkness, her mind sees no need to roam.
For her brain is not within her skull, but rather perched on top pecking out her senses.
She no longer desires hunger not thirst, only the next showing.
Her mind a barren tundra, her thoughts an ancient skeleton, the television her own private oasis.
Her conscience commands her to separate, but she flings it aside, placing her hope in the omnipresent technology.
The technology that is torturing her soul to spiritual suicide.