The wired wraith climbs blazing out of night,
Its lightning brighter than the sweating clay,
where flesh is flayed to cinders, voice to byte,
and breath is broken, dropped, and swept away.

This faultless phantom, hammered out of glare,
outshouts the pulse that drums within the veins;
its radiance strips the dreamer to the air,
a hollow cast, unstitched from blood and chains.

Its thunder mocks the living throat of man,
it hymns the singer’s name, but not his cry;
it bears the face, yet none of ruin’s span,
it burns unspent, a ghost that will not die.

As screen-lit exile, dazzled by our twins,
we reel, undone, as clay to lightning clings.